Powersat (The Grand Tour)

by Bova, Ben

  “The hell he is!” Garrison snapped. “You think he’s powerful? Hah! We’ll lay down the law to him, just like always.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You’ll see. Know what they say in Washington? ‘The president proposes, but the Congress disposes.’ And we’ve got Congress. Enough of ’em, anyway. Got ’em right here.” Garrison patted his pants pocket.

  “And you believe you can handle Scanwell. the same way?” Al-Bashir felt impressed.

  “Presidents come and go,” Garrison said. “Some of our congressmen and senators have been there through five and six administrations.”

  “I see,” said al-Bashir with newfound understanding.

  “Scanwell and his energy independence.” Garrison chuckled. “We’ll tie him up in knots.”

  “That leaves Randolph, then.”

  “We’ve gotta keep him from goin’ to Yamagata.”

  “He really doesn’t want to sell any of his stock to us,” al-Bashir said. “He’s deathly afraid that once we’re into his company, we’ll take it over completely.”

  “That’s the main idea, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but we can’t do it if he won’t sell to us.”

  Garrison chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then asked, “What do you recommend?”

  For a long moment, al-Bashir remained silent. We both know that what I recommend, he said to himself, is what we will do.

  At last he said, “We’ll do as he asks. Extend a loan to him.

  “Give in to him?”

  “Appear to give in to him,” al-Bashir said, placatingly. “Let him think that he’s won. Loan him what he needs. But only on a monthly basis. Keep him tied to us.”

  “On a shoestring,” Garrison muttered.

  “While the price of his stock keeps slipping.”

  “And we quietly buy it up through third parties, so he doesn’t know we’re taking him over until it’s too late.”

  “Exactly,” said al-Bashir.

  Garrison laughed his cackling, rasping snicker. “We won’t have to pony up the one-point-five bill. Nowhere near it.”

  “Probably not,” al-Bashir agreed.

  “By Christ, you’re even sneakier than I am!” Garrison said approvingly.

  A win-win situation, al-Bashir congratulated himself as he rode the private elevator to the lobby and the limousine waiting for him at the curb. Garrison believes we will eventually get control of Astro Corporation. Randolph will believe that he’s getting the money he needs to finish the power satellite without selling out his company.

  And I will be able to use the satellite to destroy Randolph and the very idea of generating energy from space. And kill many thousands of Americans into the bargain.

  MATAGORDA ISLAND, TEXAS

  Claude Passeau had a quizzical look on his face as he walked with Dan along the stacks. Eight solid-propellant rockets lay on their sides in the big warehouse, each of them bigger than a blue whale, all of them painted gleaming white with Astro Corporation’s stylish logo emblazoned along their flanks.

  “You seem to have worked some sort of minor miracle,” Passeau said.

  Dan shook his head, his eyes focused on the crew of technicians who were carefully slipping a cradle around the farthest of the rockets in preparation for lifting it into a sling and carrying it to the next building. There, it would be stood upright and mated with the smaller upper stage that carried the electronic flight systems.

  “Getting Lockheed Martin to build these boosters at such a low price?” Dan replied. “No miracle. Just competitive bidding. And mass production. Instead of asking them for one or two, I ordered a dozen. With an option for six dozen more.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it,” Passeau said.

  Dan looked at the smaller man. The FAA administrator looked crisp and cool in a beige summerweight suit.

  “Is this silk?” Dan asked, fingering the jacket collar.

  “You’re avoiding the issue, Dan.”

  “What issue?”

  “The change in the weather.”

  “Oh?”

  With a bemused smile, Passeau said, “The prevailing wind from Washington has changed direction, my friend.”

  “Has it?” Dan asked innocently.

  “Decidedly. Instead of being furious at you for your unauthorized test flight, my superiors have instructed me to wrap up the crash investigation and give you a clean bill of health.”

  That’s Jane’s doing, Dan thought. A U.S. senator can make a bureaucracy jump, especially when the bureaucracy’s budget is coming up on the Senate floor soon. But then he wondered, Has Garrison anything to do with this? He wants to buy me out, but a defunct Astro Corporation wouldn’t be any good to him. Or would it?

  Genuinely puzzled, Dan asked, “What does a clean bill of health mean?”

  Still smiling, Passeau said, “My final report will not mention the word ‘sabotage.’ That would be too epistemological. I am merely to conclude that the cause of the crash was specific to your oh-one aircraft and not due to any inherent flaw in its design or your operational procedures.”

  “That’s what your final report’s going to say?”

  “Yes. I thought you’d be pleased to hear it.”

  “I am, Claude. Very pleased.” Yet Dan felt no elation, no surge of relief.

  “Well, it’s the truth, isn’t it?” Passeau responded, his brows knitting slightly. “Your flight with the oh-two model proved it for everyone to see.”

  “How soon will you finish your report? How soon can you take the wraps off and let me get back to normal business instead of going to Venezuela?”

  Passeau held up a hand. “These things take a bit of time, you know. I can’t simply tell my people to wrap up their work and go home:”

  “Why not?”

  “Because government agencies don’t work that way, Dan. It would look terribly suspicious if we suddenly put out a report holding you blameless for the crash. We’d be accused of a whitewash.”

  Planting his fists on his hips, Dan said, “But that’s what you’re going to do, isn’t it? You just told me that your final report will give us a clean bill of health.”

  “In good time, Dan. In good time. We mustn’t rush it; that would look too …” Passeau fumbled for a word. “Too unseemly,” he finally said.

  “Weeks? Months? Years? How long?”

  “Oh, less than a year. Much less. A few months, most likely.”

  “That’s the best you can do?”

  “Under the circumstances, I should think you’d be overjoyed.”

  Dan puffed out a sigh. “I am, Claude. I am. Thanks a whole bunch.”

  Passeau shook his head and walked away, heading back to his office in the engineering building. Dan looked up at the overhead crane trundling by, then decided to stay in the warehouse and watch the crew wrestling the big booster into its transport sling. It was a lot easier to manhandle a giant firecracker than to fathom the ways of a government bureaucracy.

  “You have a dinner invitation,” April told Dan when he returned to his office.”It’s on your screen.”

  Sliding into his desk chair, Dan tapped his mouse and saw Asim al-Bashir’s neatly bearded face.

  “Dan, I hope you can join me for dinner tomorrow evening, either here in Houston or down at your Matagorda Island. I have news that you will be very glad to hear.”

  Everybody’s giving me good news today, Dan said to himself as he clicked on the REPLY icon.

  “Mr. al-Bashir, I’ll be happy to have dinner with you tomorrow. Let’s make it in Houston; the restaurants are a lot better there. Let me know where and what time. Thanks.”

  The restaurant turned out to be an establishment called Istanbul West. To Dan it looked like some Hollywood mogul’s idea of a Middle Eastern eatery: pointed archways with elaborate filigrees of traceries, waiters in pantaloons and velvet vests, colorful pillows strewn everywhere. At least the tables are normal height, Dan saw as the maitr
e d’ led him through the big, ornate dining room. Al-Bashir wasn’t there yet. Dan remembered that Arabs had a reputation for being loose about punctuality. He also realized that making your guest wait for you to arrive is part of a power trip. Al-Bashir had been precisely punctual the first time they’d met.

  So Dan sat at the table. It was on the edge of what appeared to be a dance floor. And there was a small stage where a trio of musicians were unpacking their instruments: some sort of a guitar, a clarinet, and a set of drums. No amplifiers in sight. Dan felt grateful for that.

  The menu had regular steaks and chops on one side, more exotic dishes with names that Dan didn’t recognize on the other. A waiter came up and, sure enough, he was wearing shoes with curled-up toes. Dan asked for an amontillado. The waiter expressed puzzlement in a down-home accent. Dan ordered a Jack Daniel’s with water. That, the waiter understood.

  I wonder how long al-Bashir’s going to keep me waiting, Dan thought as he sipped at his drink and the three-piece combo warmed up.

  Then the clarinetist announced that the first oriental dancer of the night was “Yasmin, a lovely Lebanese girl.”

  She looked more like Texas than Lebanon to Dan: red-haired and billowy in a sequined push-up bra. Once she started dancing, Dan stopped worrying about when al-Bashir would show up.

  He finally arrived after “Yasmin” finished her dance, to a raucous round of applause and some howls and hoots from the guys clustered at the bar.

  “I’m terribly sorry to be so late,” al-Bashir said as he sat at the table. He didn’t look sorry to Dan; the man was smiling like a well-fed cat.

  “No problem,” Dan said glibly. “I’ve been enjoying the show.”

  “Ah yes, the dancers. They save the better ones for later in the evening.”

  Al-Bashir seemed in no hurry to report his good news, so Dan asked him about the Middle Eastern side of the menu. He eventually followed the Tunisian’s suggestions and ordered shish kebab with couscous.

  When their dinners arrived, Dan laughed. “The locals would call this barbecue.”

  Al-Bashir smiled tightly. “The locals would never be able to appreciate the spices and sauces. They like their steaks half raw and their beer thin.”

  Dan accepted that; he even halfway agreed with it

  Through the dinner and into the honey-drenched dessert al-Bashir refrained from talking business. They watched the dancers, chatted about the food and the restaurant, and sipped spiced tea. Dan recognized the game al-Bashir was playing. Okay, he said to himself, you’re waiting for me to make the first move, to ask you what you have to tell me. But I can wait as long as you can, pal.

  At last the band took a break. Al-Bashir dabbed his lips with his napkin, then leaned close enough for Dan to smell his cinnamon-scented cologne.

  “I have good news for you.”

  “So you said in your phone message,” Dan replied.

  “I have managed to convince Garrison to accede to your wishes. Tricontinental will loan you the money you need, rather than buy your stock.”

  Dan couldn’t hide his elation. “You will?”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  All his reservations gone, Dan grabbed al-Bashir’s hand and pumped it hard. “That’s what I want, all right. That’s exactly what I want.”

  “Fine. That is what we will do.”

  Suddenly at a loss, Dan stammered, “I … I don’t know how to thank you. I mean … we’ll be able to get the powersat running. We’ll be able to beam energy down to the ground.”

  Smiling benignly, al-Bashir said, “I understand. You see, I want the power satellite to go into operation just as much as you do.”

  NASHUA, NEW HAMPSHIRE

  Jane could feel the tension in Morgan’s hand as she sat beside him on the sofa, watching the early election returns on the muted television set across the crowded hotel sitting room. He’s trying to appear relaxed and confident, she knew, but she could sense the stress in every rigid line of his body. The suite was jammed with volunteers, aides, a few local politicians, all standing in clumps of twos and threes, their eyes on the TV and the numbers that were slowly accumulating. They spoke in near whispers, tense with expectation, conversations subdued.

  More volunteers were gathering downstairs in the hotel’s ballroom, ready to party if the returns were good, ready to go home through the iron cold of the New Hampshire night if the results were as bad as most of them feared they would be.

  Turning her head to look through the window, Jane saw that snow had started to fall outside, big wet flakes sifting silently down, quiet and serene, illuminated by the tall lights of the Nashua Marriott hotel’s half-empty parking lot. A late winter’s night in New Hampshire, Jane thought. It’s quiet in here, too, despite the press of all these people, she realized. Quiet, but taut with anxiety. You can almost smell the fear.

  A good thing it didn’t start snowing until after the polling places were closed, Jane told herself. At least the snow didn’t keep the voters at home. And we can blame the snow for a poor showing at the party downstairs.

  The TV screen showed the local news, with precincts reporting the results of the nation’s earliest presidential primary election. The volunteers crowding the modest sitting room were young men and women for the most part, dressed in comfortable, practical tweeds and woolens. No straw hats or garish campaign badges. The older politicians carried on terse discussions with one another, each of them wondering if they had backed the wrong horse, their eyes never leaving the numbers shown on the TV screen.

  Denny O’Brien was standing by the well-stocked bar, deep in earnest conversation with the city’s leading banker. Jane had to smile at the contrast between them: Denny looked like a sagging, half-deflated blimp next to the lean, flinty-eyed New Hampshireman. No news reporters were among the crowd, Jane noted. Not one.

  Well, she thought, we never expected Morgan to carry New Hampshire. He did well enough in the Iowa caucus, but the New Hampshire voters had barely heard of the governor of Texas when the campaign started. Still, we need to make a solid showing here, Jane told herself. The national spotlight is on New Hampshire tonight, and Morgan’s got to show that he can win votes.

  “ … and the surprise of the evening, so far,” one of the carefully coiffed TV analysts was saying, “is that Morgan Scanwell appears to be doing much better than the polls indicated.”

  “Yes,” said his partner, smiling with perfect teeth. “Scanwell’s message of energy independence seems to have struck a chord among New Hampshire voters.”

  All the conversations in the suite stopped for a moment, as the TV screen showed fresh numbers. Morgan’s in third place, Jane saw! In a field of seven candidates, third place isn’t bad. She felt her pulse rate quicken. He’s out-polling the Kennedy woman from Massachusetts!

  As the evening wore on and the results from across the state came in, the hotel suite became louder and merrier. A couple of news reporters arrived and pushed through the crowd to ask for an interview. Scanwell grinned at them and looked at Jane.

  “Let’s wait for the final results, shall we?” Jane said.

  Nodding, Scanwell said, “Good idea. Shouldn’t be long now.”

  A news camera crew barged in and commandeered one of the big upholstered wing chairs, one guy manhandling it into a corner of the room while his partners set up their minicam and lights.

  “All right,” said the analyst on the TV screen, “here are the final results.”

  The room fell silent.

  “As expected and predicted, the winner of the New Hampshire primary is Senator Charles Waldron, of New York, with forty-seven percent of the vote.”

  “Texas Governor Morgan Scanwell,” said his smiling colleague, “is the big surprise of the night, coming in second with twenty-two percent, slightly ahead of Michael Underwood …”

  The rest was drowned out by cheering. Jane gave Scanwell a celebratory kiss on the cheek, then the governor jumped to his feet and started shaking hands
with everybody. Suddenly everyone in the room wanted to grasp his hand. The TV reporter waded through the pack and led him to the wing chair for a congratulatory interview while the volunteers started for the door, heading downstairs to the ballroom for a well-earned celebration.

  And Jane found herself wondering what Dan was doing. She knew she had been foolish, stupid even, to go to see him in Texas, to be alone with him, to love him. That was a mistake, she told herself sternly. It won’t happen again. It can’t happen again. Not now. Not ever.

  Still, she wondered what Dan was doing at this very moment.

  “I never realized it could be so cold in Texas,” said Asim al-Bashir as he and Dan hustled from his Jaguar to the bar of the Astro Motel.

  Dan grinned at him. “The locals say there’s nothing between Texas and the North Pole except a barbed-wire fence.”

  It was warm inside the bar, although this close to midnight the place was nearly empty. The TV set at the far end of the bar was showing a hockey game. A couple of rednecks were at the other end of the bar, hunched over longnecked beers. Dan saw that the hockey game was in its final minute: the Dallas Stars were ahead of the Redwings, 3–2. As he led al-Bashir to a booth, the Redwings goalie came out to help in a desperate attempt to tie the score.

  Don’t go into overtime, Dan prayed silently. The barmaid sauntered over to the booth and Dan ordered a Glenlivet on the rocks. To his surprise, al-Bashir asked for the same.

  “We’re outta Glenlivet,” said the barmaid. “How ’bout Johnnie Black?”

  “That will be fine,” al-Bashir answered. Dan agreed with a resigned nod.

  The Stars stole the puck from the attacking Redwings and skated to an easy score at the undefended goal. The Detroit crowd groaned and booed. The final buzzer sounded as the barmaid banged the two scotches onto their table.

  “Six fifty,” she announced.

  “Run a tab for me, okay?” Dan said.

  “We’re closin’ in half an hour. Y’ all want me to bring you another round now? Then I can run yer card and get outta here on time.”