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Authors: Ben Bova

BOOK: Powersat (The Grand Tour)
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F
rom her little cubicle down the hall from Chavez’s office, Kelly Eamons phoned April at her Astro Corporation of fice.
April’s image on Eamons’s desktop screen looked surprised once she recognized the FBI agent.
“Hi, Kelly! How are you? Have you found out anything new?”
Wishing she had something positive to say, Eamons replied guardedly, “Not really. What’s happening with you?”
“This place is jumping. We’re going to turn on the powersat next week. Every news outfit in the country is buzzing around. They all want to interview Dan and Gerry Adair, our astronaut. They’re even asking for interviews with the engineers.”
Eamons tried to hide her disappointment She’d been hoping that April wasn’t too busy to help her stalled investigation.
“I thought Dan made a mistake to schedule the turn-on for the Sunday of the holiday weekend,” April was rattling on, “but he’s a lot smarter about these things than I am. It’s a slow news day, and the media’s practically frothing at the mouth to have a big story for Sunday.”
Big story if the satellite works, Eamons thought. But, she realized, an even bigger story if it doesn’t work.
To April she said, “I understand that one of Tricontinental Oil’s directors is spending a lot of time down there in Matagorda.” Before April could ask, she added, “Asim al-Bashir.”
“Oh, yes. Asim’s here all the time.”
“Asim?” Eamons’s ears perked up.
Lowering her voice slightly, April said, “I’ve been dating him.”
“You have?”
“Nothing serious. Just dinner.”
“Really?”
“He’s very nice. Sort of.”
Her mind racing, Eamons tried to make small talk while she decided how much to tell April. The kid’s not a trained agent, she told herself. You got her into enough trouble with that Kinsky guy and Roberto. If al-Bashir really is the brains behind Roberto and everything else …
“He’s invited me to come up to Houston for a visit,” April was saying. “Maybe we could get together then.”
“That sounds a little like walking into the spider’s parlor,” Eamons said, still wondering what to do.
“Don’t worry. I can’t get away from the office until after the powersat’s turned on,” April said.
“Still …”
“I’ll get my own hotel room,” April said, her smile brighter. With a laugh she added, “If you’re worried about me you can have an agent follow me wherever I go.”
Or plant a bug on you, Eamons said to herself.
 
 
F
or months Jane had ignored Dan’s phone messages. In truth, she had been too busy to see him, with Morgan Scanwell’s constant campaigning across the nation. New Hampshire, Iowa, South Carolina, the smashing Super Tuesday victories, and now the California, New York, and Texas primaries coming up. The major leagues.
Dan had called insistently, almost every day since their brief foolish fling at his place in Matagorda. Stupid thing to do, Jane told herself every time she saw his name on her list of unanswered messages. You allowed your hormones to overwhelm your good sense. If Morgan ever finds out … ! But coldly, logically, she told herself that if Morgan found out he would do nothing. He might be hurt, crushed even, but he would neither do nor say anything that would sidetrack his campaign to the White House.
Nor will I, Jane decided. I owe Morgan that much. I can’t
let Dan interfere, can’t let him muddy the waters no matter how much I love him. Not now. It’s too late for that now. Maybe not ever.
Still, her heart had nearly stopped when she’d seen Dan at the Senate subcommittee hearing. She’d known he would be there, she’d thought she’d steeled herself for the moment, yet still her knees went weak at the sight of him. It had taken all her strength, all her resolve, to sit through his testimony and remain cool, unmoved.
Now, as she sat alone in her office at the end of a long, draining day, his name appeared again on her desktop screen, right at the top of calls she should answer.
Almost without her consciously willing it, Jane clicked on his name.
Dan’s face appeared on the screen. He was grinning happily. “I know you’re busy but I just wanted to say thanks for helping us. Sunday morning we’re supposed to turn the powersat on. Maybe you can come down here Saturday. I’ll have a surprise for you.”
His image froze, a set of telephone numbers superimposed over it office, personal direct line, cell phone.
A surprise, she thought. I’ll bet. Probably a bottle of champagne and a freshly made bed. Despite herself, Jane smiled. Then she thought, Morgan ought to be at the Astro facility when Dan turns the power satellite on. After all, he is the governor of Texas and Astro is in his state. It would be good publicity, a fine chance to show his energy independence ideas can really work.
She brought up Morgan’s schedule for the coming week. He’ll be spending the next three days in California and New York, she saw. Friday night back to Austin, ostensibly at tending to his duties as governor but actually mending fences and shaking hands for the upcoming Texas primary. Monday the Memorial Day barbecue. Jane called Austin and spoke to Scanwell’s travel aide.
“He can jet down to Matagorda for a few hours on Sunday,” she said. “He’ll get more news coverage there than in Austin.”
The travel aide, a lank-haired, sleepy-eyed brunette, nodded unenthusiastically. “Yes, Senator, I suppose so. But he’s got a full schedule of meetings set for Sunday and then the barbecue on the holiday.”
“Bring the important ones along on the jet with him,” Jane told her. “They’ll appreciate being on the plane with the governor and then seeing the kickoff of the power satellite.”
“I don’t know if I can do that this late,” the aide complained. “It’s already Tuesday and—”
“You can do it,” Jane said firmly. “I have every confidence in you.”
The aide nodded again, even more glumly. They both understood quite well that when the governor’s campaign manager makes a suggestion, it’s really a command.
That done, Jane clicked to her own schedule for the Memorial Day weekend. The Senate would be adjourned until Tuesday noon. Friday she had meetings scheduled with Denny and the rest of the strategists to plan the final weeks of the campaign leading up to the party’s convention in Denver.
I could fly home to the ranch Friday night, she told herself. I could pop down to Matagorda early Saturday and be there when Morgan arrives on Sunday.
I could, Jane thought. But I won’t.
“Y
ou jes keep that A-rab away from my hangar,” Niles Muhamed said, almost in a growl.
Dan leaned back in his desk chair and stared at the scowling technician. He couldn’t remember the last time Muhamed had made the hundred-yard trip from Hangar B to his office.
“What’s the problem, Niles?”
“No problem,” Muhamed said, standing tensely before
Dan’s ornate desk. “I jes don’t like him snoopin’ around the oh-two.”
“Has he been in the cockpit?” Dan asked.
“That’ll be the day!” Muhamed snorted. “I don’t let nobody touch that baby ’cept Gerry and his ground crew. Nobody else gets closer’n ten feet.”
“So what’s al-Bashir done that bothers you?”
Muhamed’s frown turned from suspicious to puzzled. “Nothin’ I can put a finger on. He’s jes slippery, you know, like he’s always askin’ questions and tryin’ to figure out what’s goin’ down:’
Spreading his hands, Dan tried to explain, “Niles, he’s our pipeline to the money that’s keeping us going. It’s natural that he wants to know what we’re doing.”
“Natural, huh?”
“I’ve given him a pretty free hand to look at anything he likes,” Dan admitted. “He’s been all over the place.”
“Yeah, well you jes tell him to stay outta Hangar B. I don’t want nobody messin’ with the oh-two.”
Dan thought, I can tell al-Bashir that we’re closing off the hangar as a security measure, this close to starting up the powersat. He’ll see the necessity of that.
“Okay,” he said to the scowling technician. “I’ll tell him. In fact, you can keep the hangar closed to anybody but the plane’s crew.”
With a single curt nod Muhamed turned around and marched out of the office, leaving Dan musing about security. Wouldn’t hurt to keep Hangar B sealed off, he thought. Al-Bashir can poke into the control center or anyplace else he likes, but we’ll keep tight security on the spaceplane. That’s our most vulnerable spot. We’ll keep him away from it. Probably not necessary, but Niles is right: don’t let anybody screw around with the plane. One crash was more than enough.
 
 
L
ater that day Dan was in the satellite control center, trying to look calm and confident, but he could hardly restrain an
urge to jump up and down like a little kid or turn cartwheels all along the rows of consoles. He settled for loosening the tie that was already pulled away from his unbuttoned collar. Lynn Van Buren stood beside him, wearing her usual dark pantsuit and string of pearls.
Standing at the double-doored entrance to the big room, Dan and his chief engineer watched with a mixture of admiration and excitement as the engineers went through their checkout routines at the rows of consoles lined across the windowless cinderblock control center. An oversized display screen covered one wall. It showed an electronic map of the southwestern part of the United States, northern Mexico and Baja California, and a large swath of the Pacific Ocean. West of the Galápagos Islands, precisely on the equator at 106 degrees west longitude, glowed a single bright red dot: the location of the powersat 22,300 miles above the ocean.
“It’s all going smoothly,” Dan said, rubbing his hands together nervously.
“Smooth as a baby’s bottom,” agreed Van Buren. She looked serious, even dour, her round face unsmiling.
“White Sands checks out okay?” he asked.
Van Buren nodded. “They’re ready to receive right now.”
“We could turn the bird on now, couldn’t we?”
Van Buren hesitated a fraction of a second. “Give us the next two days to triple-check everything, chief. You don’t want a fizzle on Sunday in front of everybody.”
“Yeah, right,” said Dan. “But I want a preliminary start-up Saturday afternoon.”
“I know. We’ve got it in the schedule. Ten-minute test run.”
“Make it half an hour.”
She cocked a brow at him. “Chief, the magnetrons and everything else come up to full power output in less than a minute. A ten-minute prelim run is plenty of time to make sure it’s all working.”
“Half an hour,” he repeated.
“It’s not necessary.”
Dan grinned at her. “Do it for me, okay?”
With the resigned expression of an engineer who is
doomed to satisfy silly demands from management, Van Buren shrugged her chunky shoulders and acquiesced. “Okay, half an hour.”
“Good.”
He practically danced out of the control center and across the parking lot that separated the building from Hangar A. A crew of safety-masked painters up on scaffolds were spraying robin’s-egg blue over the gray cinderblocks. Dan wanted the place to look new and clean and bright for the camera crews that would descend on them Sunday morning.
He was still in a happy mood as he breezed past April’s desk and entered his private office. She came in right behind him, a PDA clutched in her hand.
“We just got a call from Governor Scanwell’s office,” April announced as Dan slid into his desk chair. “He’ll be here for the turn-on ceremony Sunday morning.”
Dan’s heart skipped a beat. That means Jane will be here, too, he immediately thought. Maybe she’ll come Saturday. No, he warned himself. Don’t expect that. It’s too much to hope for.
“He’ll be flying in from Austin with six or seven guests,” April added.
“Great,”said Dan. “The more the merrier.”
“You can expect a lot more pickets out by the gate on Sunday, too,” April said.
“More than today?” Dan’s security chief, Mitch O’Connell, had told him that the ecofreaks were waving placards at the cars coming in for work in the morning and screaming obscenities at their drivers.
“Mr. O’Connell says there’ll be a lot more. He’s worried they might try to get through the gate Sunday and disrupt everything.”
Dan thought for a moment. “I’ll have to talk to Mitch about it. Maybe bring in a crew of rent-a-cops for the day.”
“Governor Scanwell will be flying in, so he won’t have to come through the gate,” she said.
“Yeah. But when those nuts see the TV trucks rolling up to the gate they’ll get frantic. Their big chance for publicity.”
April looked worried. “You don’t think they’ll actually disrupt things, do you? Or cause damage?”
“Maybe we ought to hire a SWAT team,” Dan grumbled.
 
 
L
ate that afternoon Asim al-Bashir walked into Dan’s office unannounced; he simply smiled at April as he went past her desk, rapped once on the jamb of Dan’s open door, and stepped in.
Dan looked up from his computer screen, more curious than annoyed.
“I just want to let you know,” al-Bashir said without preamble, “that I’ll be out of town for the next day or two.”
“Houston?” Dan asked. “Don’t tell me you’re going to get Garrison himself to come down for the turn-on.”
Al-Bashir chuckled. “No, Garrison isn’t interested. Actually, I’ve got to fly to Europe for a meeting.”
“Will you be back Sunday?”
His smile remained in place, but the expression in his eyes changed subtly. “Oh yes,” said al-Bashir. “I’ll be here Sunday. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
 
 
“A
ren’t you the least bit nervous?” Gilly Williamson asked.
Malfoud Bouchachi closed the drawer into which he had placed the few clothes he’d brought with him. “No,” said the Algerian. “I find that I am strangely calm.”
Williamson shook his head in admiration. The two men were in the bedroom they would share until they were launched into space. Outside the room’s only window the flat parched vastness of Kazakhstan stretched to the bare brown hills on the dusty, barren horizon.
“A strange place to die,” Williamson muttered.
“We will not die
here
,” said Bouchachi.
“I know. But still …” Williamson took in a breath of dry, dust-laden air, and coughed. “Better than a fucking hospital ward, I suppose.”
“We will accomplish much more than we ever could otherwise. Our deaths will be meaningful.”
Sitting on the thin mattress of his bed, Williamson smiled bitterly. “Nobody’s death is meaningful, friend.”
“You are a Christian?” Bouchachi asked.
“I was a Catholic.”
“And now?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
Bouchachi nodded knowingly. “Ah, I understand. I have been promised a martyr’s reward in Paradise.”
“D’you believe it?”
“Sometimes. It doesn’t really matter. At least, that is what I tell myself when my faith weakens.”
“Fuck all,” Williamson said fervently. “We’re all going to die, no matter what we do. Sooner is better than later.”
“If your death accomplishes something.”
“Oh, we’ll accomplish something, all right. We’ll take half a million with us.”
“That many?”
“At least.”
The two men had trained separately for six months, Bouchachi at Star City, on the outskirts of Moscow, Williamson at the Chinese space center near Beijing. Neither of them knew how to pilot a spacecraft; that would be Nikolayev’s task. Their assignment was to reach the power satellite and turn it into an instrument of mass murder. Money from The Nine fueled their mission: al-Bashir and his cohorts funneled tens of millions of carefully laundered dollars into Russia, China, and Kazakhstan. Williamson’s family would be told that he died in an automobile accident in Hubei Province, near the site of the Three Gorges Dam project; they would receive a hefty pension from a construction firm owned by al-Bashir. Bouchachi, whose family had been killed three years earlier in an Algerian government raid against a fundamentalist sect’s home village, had no need of such arrangements.
Williamson got up from the creaking bed and walked to
the screened window. Bouchachi went back to meticulously rearranging his few clothes and moving his prayer rug from the bottom to the top drawer of the room’s only bureau. By standing to one side of the window and craning his neck, Williamson could see a tall, white-painted rocket booster standing on one of the launchpads.
“Come look,” he said to his comrade. “They’ve got our bird up.”
Bouchachi turned and glanced out the window. “Our ride to Paradise,” he muttered.

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