by Bova, Ben
Grinning, Dan thought that he could start making some money now by selling that power to the Western electric utilities. California won’t have any blackouts this summer, he told himself happily.
MARSEILLE
The Egyptian was too nervous to stay in the makeshift control center, so he went outside into the garden and sat in the shade of an ancient, gnarled olive tree. It was too hot and intense down in the basement with that quartet of bearded young electronics specialists, with their multiple earrings and other piercings defacing their lips and brows. He could barely understand what they were saying, their English was so studded with arcane jargon. Besides, they had turned the basement into a pigsty, littering it with emptied fast-food cartons and crumpled papers and plastic bottles; the floor crunched with crumbs when you walked across it.
It is going well, the Egyptian assured himself as he gazed out on the calm Mediterranean. Below this hilltop villa sprawled the city, dirty, noisy and dangerous. But from up here he could watch the placid sea glittering as the sun set at the end of a lovely springtime afternoon.
It is going well, he repeated to himself. The astronauts have reached their transfer ship. The new antenna was precisely where it was supposed to be, and now they are taking it up to the power satellite. If the American TV news can be believed, the power satellite is already beaming power to Earth.
Soon that power will kill thousands. And the Americans will never know that we caused it to be so. They will think their satellite malfunctioned. They will believe that it is dangerous. They will demand that it be destroyed.
Not a bad result for the cost of three martyrs. And one of them doesn’t even know he will become a martyr.
One should never give news reporters free liquor, thought al-Bashir. He stood in the corner of Hangar A and watched the reporters and camera crews swilling the champagne and harder spirits that Dan Randolph had provided, making asses of themselves as they got gloriously drunk. Dan had wisely made arrangements to have his own security personnel drive the louts to the Astro Motel for the night. No fool, this man Randolph.
Governor Scanwell and Senator Thornton had taken a perfunctory sip of champagne and then flown off to their next campaign stop. The noise level in the metal-walled hangar was becoming intolerable. Al-Bashir finished the plastic cup of cola that he had been holding for nearly an hour, then walked out into the parking lot and got into his Mercedes.
He started up the engine and turned the air-conditioning on high, then pulled out his cell phone and called his office in Houston. They would patch his call to Tunis, where in turn the call would be forwarded to Marseille. The roundabout routing was time-consuming, but al-Bashir wanted to make certain his call would not be traced.
Perhaps I should speak to Garrison, he thought, and inform him of Randolph’s success. With a slight smile, he wondered if the news would give the old man a fatal stroke or heart attack. Not likely. Garrison is made of stronger stuff than that.
His conversation with the Egyptian in Marseille was brief.
“It is a success,” al-Bashir said, without even identifying himself.
“It goes well here,” the Egyptian replied.
“Good. I will arrive there near dawn tomorrow, I should think.”
“We will expect you then.”
Al-Bashir clicked the phone off. Now to find April, he thought. It’s time to take her away with me.
Once Jane left the celebration, Dan decided he’d had enough of it, too. He saw April in the crowd, talking to al-Bashir. Then the Arab went out and didn’t come back, leaving April to chat with a couple of the news people. Some chat, Dan thought. You have to scream at the top of your lungs just to hear yourself think. The noise level was starting to hurt his ears. Vicki Lee was somewhere in the crowd; he’d lost sight of her.
So he made his way through the drinkers to Niles Muhamed and asked his help in loading a carton of champagne bottles and a cooler of ice into one of the company minivans.
“You goin’ to have your own party?” Muhamed asked, his face glowering with suspicion.
“Sort of,” said Dan with a lopsided grin.
With Muhamed in the passenger seat beside him, Dan drove out to the main gate. The state police contingent had gone, but the Astro guards were still there, and a handful of demonstrators were sitting disconsolately on the hoods of their cars, their placards down on the ground.
Dan told the guards to open the gate, then drove the minivan a few yards up the road and pulled over to the side.
Hopping out of the car, he went to its rear hatch and popped it open.
“I thought you guys might like some champagne,” he said brightly.
A short, compactly built man with a sandy ponytail walked up to Dan, suspicion etched on his face.
“Champagne? For us?”
“Why not?” Dan said, grinning. “Just because we don’t agree doesn’t mean we have to be sore at each other.”
Rick Chatham stared at Dan. “You’re Dan Randolph, aren’t you?”
“Right,” said Dan, handing Chatham a bottle of champagne.
“I don’t get it.”
With a quick shrug, Dan said, “Look, you made your demonstration. You did your thing. And we did ours. The satellite’s beaming power and the world hasn’t come to an end. Let’s have a drink.”
Several more of the demonstrators came up behind Chatham, eying the champagne.
“This isn’t over, you knows,” Chatham said. “We haven’t given up.”
“Fine,” Dan replied. “In the meantime, have some bubbly. It’s kind of warm, but there’s a cooler of ice here.”
The demonstrators crowded around the rear end of the minivan, grabbing bottles.
MATAGORDA ISLAND, TEXAS
Al-Bashir turned off the engine on his Mercedes and walked back into the hangar. The noise was still painful, although the crowd was noticeably smaller.
April was still there, and when she caught sight of al-Bashir she looked slightly startled, almost afraid. He smiled at her from across the crowded hangar floor, then went to the makeshift bar and asked for two colas.
As he threaded his way through the crowd toward April, he saw a dusty minivan pull up directly in front of the hangar door. Dan Randolph got out with the scowling black technician. I wonder where he was, al-Bashir asked himself. No matter. His fate is about to be sealed. And I have a rendezvous of my own to make.
He stopped at one of the shaky little round tables that had been set up across the hangar floor. Putting down the two plastic cups of cola, al-Bashir reached into his jacket pocket for the little vial of pills he had brought with him from Marseille. He shook one out and made a show of putting it in his mouth, then taking a swallow of his cola. Actually, he palmed the pale pink lozenge and dropped it inconspicuously into the other drink. Somatomax, it was called. A gamma-hydroxybutrate, used for bodybuilding in Europe; illegal in the United States. Its side effects included euphoria and drowsiness. An admirable date-rape drug, much more subtle and effective than the roofies and clonazepam that American college boys used.
While Jane was present, Dan had stayed as far from Vicki Lee as he could, but now that the senator had left with Scanwell, Dan simply drifted through the crowd, nursing a plastic cup of flat and warm champagne, thinking, What the hell, if she comes over there’s no harm being sociable to her. He still worried about allowing her into his apartment upstairs, but he realized it would be damnably awkward to steer her out to whichever motel she was staying in.
We’ll see what develops, he told himself.
Even across the crowded, noisy hangar, April was alarmed by what she saw in al-Bashir’s eyes. A cold shudder ran through her. You must be crazy, she told herself. Go to France with him? In his private jet? That’s like saying yes to him before he even asks.
And yet she had told Eamons that she would go. They wanted to get evidence against al-Bashir. The man might be the one behind the crash and the murders, the one who was trying to ruin Dan.
&n
bsp; But she fished her cell phone out of her purse and tapped out Eamons’s personal number. One ring. Two. Come on, April said, seeing that al-Bashir was pushing his way through the crowd toward her, a drink in each hand.
“Eamons here.”
“Kelly! It’s April.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m still at Matagorda.” She hesitated a moment. Al-Bashir was almost within earshot.
“Can you talk any louder?” Eamons asked. “There’s a lot of noise in the background.”
“I’m not going,” April said, as loudly as she dared.
“What?”
“I’m not going through with it. I’m sorry, but I just can’t do it.”
Eamons said nothing for a long moment. Then, “Can’t say I blame you, kid.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It was a crazy idea in the first place.”
Al-Bashir stepped up to her, smiling, holding the two drinks.
“I’ll call you later.”
“Okay. Call me when you get home. No matter what time it is.”
“All right. Thanks.” April clicked off the phone and put it back in her purse.
“Have a drink, April,” said al-Bashir, proffering one of the plastic cups.
She hesitated.
Smiling more broadly, al-Bashir said, “It’s nonalcoholic. Coke. Coca-Cola, that is, not cocaine.” He laughed mildly.
April took the cup. It felt cold and slippery in her hand. Then she looked up and saw, halfway across the hangar floor, that a buxom young news reporter was sidling up to Dan and he was grinning at her. April felt her innards tense.
Al-Bashir said something to her, but she didn’t hear it. She watched as Dan slipped an arm around the woman’s waist. The woman looked familiar to her. Vicki Lee, she recalled. From Aviation Week. She’s been here before, April knew. The way Dan was looking at her, there was far more than publicity on his mind, she could see.
Al-Bashir lifted his cup in a mock toast. April made herself smile at him and sipped at the drink he had given her.
Williamson found that if he didn’t move his head he was all right. His stomach had settled down, just as Nikolayev had foretold. That’s the one thing they can’t train you for in the simulators, he told himself. Zero gravity screws up all your body fluids. His head still felt stuffed, as if he had a monster of a sinus infection. But he didn’t feel as if he had to puke anymore, for which he was bloody grateful.
I wonder if Bouchachi’s going through the same ordeal, Williamson asked himself. He’s damned quiet. Bloody martyr. Maybe he’s afraid that if he complains Allah won’t let him into Paradise after all. Williamson laughed inwardly. Maybe I can get his seventy-two virgins then.
The transfer ship was slightly bigger than the Soyuz they had ridden to low orbit. Now Nikolayev was steering them to the powersat itself, high up in the geosynchronous twenty-four-hour orbit. Their equipment package was flying formation with them, guided from the ground control center, wherever that was.
It’s like a fucking computer game, Williamson thought. None of it seemed real to him. He sat inside a bulky spacesuit topped by a fishbowl helmet, inside a cabin that was crammed with gauges and dials and lighted boards that winked and clicked at him. No way to see outside, which was probably just as well. Nothing out there to see, he figured.
Ann’s face came to his thoughts, despite his best efforts to drive her image out of his mind. She had been beautiful once, young and lovely, with a laugh that could charm the angels down from heaven. But the face he saw now was pale and strained, lined with worry, old before her time. She knew Williamson was going to die, slowly and painfully as the cancer ate away his insides. She knew she’d have to support their two children by herself. He hadn’t told her about the money he’d get for this mission. He’d left a letter for her, to be delivered in three days. It’ll all be over by then, Williamson knew. I’ll be dead. Bouchachi and Nikolayev will be dead. And so will a whole shitload of Yanks.
ABOVE THE ATLANTIC
April awoke slowly, reluctantly, dragging herself out of a deep and deliciously relaxing sleep. A soft, droning sound was lulling her, urging her to rest, easing her body with a soft, gentle vibration. Then her eyes popped open. She was in a plane, sitting in a wide, comfortably cushioned seat. The sound and vibration were from the engines, muted by ample insulation. Through the little round window at her left elbow she saw nothing but steel-gray water far below.
“Where am I?” she muttered, then immediately felt foolish.
A slim young Asian woman in a tan flight attendant’s uniform bent over her, smiling. “Would you like some breakfast, Miss? Coffee? Tea?”
Turning in her seat, she saw al-Bashir making his way up the aisle from the rear end of the cabin.
“Good morning!” he said cheerfully. “I trust you slept well.”
April blinked at him. She was still wearing the dress she’d worn at work and, later, at the party. Was that yesterday?
“How did I get here?” she asked, feeling confused and more than a little afraid.
Taking the chair across the aisle and swiveling it toward her, al-Bashir said smoothly, “We drove to my plane after the party ended. We’re going to Marseille, don’t you remember?”
“But I don’t have any clothes,” April blurted. “I left my luggage in my apartment.”
Smiling, al-Bashir said, “Not to worry. We’ll buy everything you need once we land at Marseille.”
April tried hard to remember going to the plane with him, but her mind was a foggy blank.
Al-Bashir reached across the aisle and patted her knee. “You’re going to have a wonderful time in Marseille. You’ll see.”
The phone in Dan’s apartment didn’t just ring. Lynn Van Buren’s voice called sharply, “We’ve got trouble, chief.”
Dan sat up in bed, instantly wide awake. If Lynn’s using the voice override circuit—
“Phone answer,” he called out. The digital clock said 5:58 A.M.
Vicki Lee stirred beside him. Dan had been reluctant to allow her up to his one-room apartment, but as the party down on the hangar floor broke up, there didn’t seem much else to do. Champagne clouds the mind, Dan told himself.
“Dan,” said Van Buren, the image of her face dark and grave on the desktop screen. She seemed to be wearing a striped pajama top. “White Sands reports power’s out.”
Dan’s guts clenched. “What happened?” In the back of his mind he realized Van Buren could see him and the woman in bed with him but that didn’t matter.
“Don’t know. Diagnostics show the solar cells are generating electricity, but they’re not getting anything down at the rectennas.”
“Jesus Christ!”
Dan jumped out of bed, naked, ran to his desk and sat his bare rump on the fuzzy-covered little typist’s chair.
“Show me the diagnostics.”
“What’s going on?” He heard Vicki’s sleepy voice from over his shoulder.
“Go take a shower,” Dan snapped as he peered at the numbers and curves flowing across his screen.
“The magnetrons shut down,” Van Buren was saying. “They’re not functioning.”
Dan saw a series of red lights blinking balefully at him against a schematic of the satellite’s power antenna.
“That can’t be!” he snapped. “You can’t have a couple dozen magnetrons just suddenly shut down.”
“Everything else is working,” Van Buren countered.
Dan pressed his lips together, thinking furiously. “Round up the maintenance team. Get them ready for an emergency launch.”
“Dan, today’s a holiday. Memorial Day. They’re scattered all over the place. And probably hung over from last night—”
“Get them!” Dan shouted.
“Right, chief.”
Vicki Lee peeked out from the bathroom door. “Trouble?” she asked.
Dan nodded as he pushed past her into the lavatory. “You stay here. Don’t leave this room un
til I come back for you.”
“What’s going on?”
“You’ll get an exclusive, but not until I come back. Understand? Don’t leave this room.”
He pushed her firmly out of the lavatory and quickly showered. She bombarded him with questions as he dressed. He ignored her, except to take her cell phone from her purse while she watched, flabbergasted.
Dan rushed down the catwalk to his office. April wasn’t there this early in the morning, so he hurriedly called O’Connell’s office. A sleepy-eyed young man in a security uniform appeared on the screen.
Dan gave him three orders. Get O’Connell to the base right away. Shut down all outgoing phone calls unless authorized by Lynn Van Buren. And don’t let Vicki Lee out of Hangar A until Dan himself gave permission.
Then he sprinted toward the control center.
In addition to being an excellent engineer, Malfoud Bouchachi was a religious man. He prayed silently as he worked on the powersat’s huge antenna, a mile-long assembly of copper alloy attached to the immense structure that floated in the emptiness of space. One by one, with the patience of a truly dedicated man, he was unbolting the connectors that held the huge antenna to the massive power satellite, using a cordless contrarotating power tool He had gone through two batteries already and was not even halfway through his task.
Williamson should be here assisting me, he thought angrily. But he knew that Williamson had other tasks to perform, tasks that Bouchachi himself shrank from.
Below him was the Earth, looming huge and blue with gleaming white clouds scattered across its curved face. He thought of it as below him, although in the zero gravity of space up and down were meaningless concepts. Yet Bouchachi felt that if that enormous ponderous planet were above him, hanging over him like the giant fist of Allah, it would crush him, squash him like an insect, eliminate him utterly from existence.