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Authors: Ben Bova

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BOOK: Powersat (The Grand Tour)
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“I want to marry you, Jane Thornton. I want you to come to Japan with me.”
“You’re going back to Japan? Now?”
“I’ve got to,” he said. “Yamagata’s demo satellite is almost finished, but there’s still a lot of work to do. And I’m under contract. I’ve got to go back.”
She said nothing for a moment. Then, “And I’ve got a reelection campaign to start planning for.”
“But that’s years away, isn’t it?”
“There are only one hundred senators in the world, Dan. I’m not going to give that up. I can’t.”
“But—”
“Dan, it’s my career. My world. Now, with this terror attack, I’ve
got
to be there.”
He nodded glumly.
“You can get out of your contract with the Japanese.”
“But I don’t want to:”
“You don’t? Why?”
“That power satellite is vital. More important now than ever.”
“With this terrorist attack, and more to come, you think playing in outer space is important?”
“It’s not playing! Jane, if we can get electrical power from space, we can thumb our noses at the Arabs and their oil.”
She stared at him as if she couldn’t believe what he was saying. “Dan, that will take years! If ever. We have to fight the terrorists
now.”
“As long as we’re dependent on oil from the Middle East they’ll have us by the short hairs.”
“And you think going into space is going to help us?”
“Yes! Generate power from space—”
“In a hundred years, maybe.”
“Ten! Five, maybe, if we push it.”
“Ten years,” Jane said. “My god, Dan, ten years is as good as a century in politics.”
“If we don’t start now, we’ll never have it!”
“The costs,” Jane muttered. “Everything NASA does costs so much.”
“It can be done cheaper.”
“It will still costs billions, won’t it?”
Feeling exasperated, trying not to lose his temper, Dan replied, “Give me ten percent of what the oil industry spends on digging dry holes each year, and I’ll put up a full-scale powersat.”
“It can’t be done,” she said, shaking her head.
“It can’t be done unless somebody goes out and does it!”
“And that’s what you want to do? With everything else that’s happening, you want to go play in outer space.”
He bit back the reply he wanted to make. Instead, he said simply, “I’m going back to Japan. I’ve got to.”
“For how long?”
“A year, maybe a little less.”
“A year.”
He clutched her by her bare shoulders. “Jane, come with me. Forget this political crap. Come with me and help build the future!”
Even in the darkened room he could see her eyes blaze. But only for a moment; then she softened. She put her head back on his shoulder, murmuring, “I wish I could, Dan. I really wish I could.”
“But you won’t.”
“I can’t.”
“Will you marry me?”
“With you in Japan or up in a spaceship someplace?”
He smiled. Sadly. “It’s only a few hundred miles up, Yamagata’s demo satellite.”
“My place is in Washington, Dan.”
“But what about us? You love me, don’t you?”
Dan could feel his heart thumping beneath his ribs. For many beats Jane was silent At last she said, “We’ll talk about that when you come back from Japan.”
The room fell silent except for the continuing wailing of sirens.
D
an was on his cell phone with his corporate counsel as the limousine inched past the state capitol in the crowded rush-hour streets. The six flags of Texas hung limply on their poles in the soggy August heat. Len Kinsky, his public relations director, sat beside him in the air-conditioned limo, trying to look as if he weren’t listening.
“The liability suits are coming in,” the lawyer was saying, his voice like the whine of an annoying mosquito. “It’s going to add up to billions, Dan.”
“But nobody got hurt,” Dan said, feeling exasperation rising in him as he always did when talking to lawyers. “The wreckage hit one shed, from what I’ve been told. Otherwise it all fell on open land.”
“Owners are still suing,” the lawyer replied. “Property damage, emotional pain and suffering. One woman’s claiming you caused her to miscarry.”
“Double-damn it to hell and back,” Dan groused.
“Insurance won’t cover, either,” the lawyer went on. “The carrier’s canceled all your policies.”
Dan leaned back against the limo’s plush seat and tried to control his temper. He remembered Mark Twain’s advice: When angry, count to four. When very angry, swear.
Instead, he said into the phone, “We don’t settle with anybody. Understand? Not a cent. Not until we find out what caused the accident.”
“Dan, it’s Astro’s responsibility no matter what the cause of the accident was.”
Dan almost said, Not if the spaceplane was sabotaged. But he held back. “No settlements. None. Not until I tell you. Understand?”
“It’s foolish, Dan. It’s just going to run up your legal fees.”
“Better spend it while you can, then,” Randolph said. “Before we declare bankruptcy.”
He said good-bye to the lawyer and snapped the phone shut.
“Lawyers,” he grumbled to Kinsky.
The P.R. director scowled back at him. “Tell me about it. My divorce lawyer just bought himself a Lamborghini.”
Before Dan could slip the phone back into his jacket pocket, it began playing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” again. Dan huffed and peered at the tiny screen. Joe Tenny.
“Good news for a change, boss,”Tenny said without preamble. “Divers recovered the nose cap. Fell into Lake Travis, near Johnson City.”
Randolph saw that the limo was at last pulling into the driveway of the Hyatt Regency. He pressed the phone to his ear harder and tried to keep from saying anything he didn’t want Kinsky to know. “That is good news, Joe. How banged up is it?”
Tenny caught on immediately. “You’re not alone?”
“That’s right.”
“I haven’t seen the piece yet. The Texas authorities are ’coptering it down here. But I saw the dive team’s video. Handheld, kinda shaky, but the thruster assembly’s recognizable, at least.”
What the hell does that mean? Dan asked himself. Aloud, he said, “I’m going to this party of Governor Scanwell’s now. I’ll call you from my hotel room afterward.”
“Gotcha,” said Tenny. The phone went dead.
Dan never felt comfortable in a tuxedo or a dinner jacket, which he was now wearing. At least I blend in with the crowd, he thought as he followed Kinsky across the hotel’s spacious lobby, up one flight of moving stairs to the huge
atrium, with tier upon tier of balconies circling around it Dan craned his neck, gawking, for a few seconds. Then Kinsky tugged at his sleeve.
“Come on, boss. You’re here to meet the governor.”
Dan followed his public relations director. Len looks relaxed enough in his straitjacket, he thought Then he grinned. He looks like the best-dressed scarecrow in town.
There was a reception line. The atrium was crowded with women in expensive gowns and sparkling jewelry, men in dinner jackets and bow ties. Randolph spotted a few daring guys who wore no ties, only a diamond stud or a piece of Navajo turquoise at their throats. Conversations buzzed and laughter echoed across the broad atrium. Waiters carried trays of drinks. Dan asked one of the prettier waitresses for a glass of amontillado. From the perplexed look on her face he figured he’d never see her again or his drink at all. But as they edged along the creeping reception line she came back, all smiles, and handed him a tumbler filled with Dry Sack. On the rocks.
Be grateful for small miracles, Dan told himself as he sipped the drink. Kinsky, he saw, had a martini. You can take the man out of New York, Dan thought, but you can’t take the New York out of the man.
It wasn’t until he was giving his name to the flunky who was setting up the introductions for the governor that he saw Jane. As the flunky whispered into his pin mike, Dan saw her standing beside Scanwell, tall and straight and beautiful as a princess out of a fairy tale, her copper hair falling to her bare shoulders, her strapless gown of emerald green showing her enticing figure to great advantage.
Dan’s insides went hollow. It was like being in space, in zero gravity, that feeling of falling, endlessly falling. She’s more beautiful than ever, he thought. The years have been good to her. His eyes followed the graceful curve of her bare shoulder. How many time had he kissed that skin, caressed her flesh, made love to her as if no one else existed in the entire universe?
“Boss?” Kinsky nudged him gently. Dan saw that the coupIe
ahead of them had shaken hands with the governor and it was his turn to step up and meet his host for the evening. And the woman standing beside him.
Another flunky with a tiny plug in his ear said over the hubbub of the crowd, “Governor, Senator, may I present Mr. Daniel Hamilton Randolph and Mr. Leonard Kinsky. Sirs, allow me to introduce Senator Jane—”
“Hello Jane,”said Randolph.
She kept her self-control, except for a moment’s flash in her sea-green eyes. “Hello Dan,” she said, allowing herself a cool smile.
“You two know each other,” Governor Scanwell said, looking slightly perplexed.
Dan said, “We’re old friends. At least, we used to be.”
“Dan and I met years ago,” Jane said to the governor, “when I had just started in politics. Then he took off for outer space.”
“Outer space?” The governor offered his hand to Randolph. His grip was firm without being overly powerful. He’s had lots of practice, Dan thought. Scanwell looked like a rangy, weather-beaten ranch hand in a monkey suit and cowboy boots. All he lacked was a Texas ten-gallon hat. Then Dan realized the governor was no older than he himself, and his cowboy look must be carefully cultivated.
“Dan lived in orbit for more than a year,” Jane was saying.
“Really?”
“I helped to build the Japanese power satellite,” Dan explained.
“And now you’ve built one for the United States,” Scanwell said, showing that at least he had been briefed about Dan. “We’ll have to talk about that later on.”
That was the cue to move away and let the people behind him shake the governor’s hand.
“Yes,” Dan said. “I’d like to talk to you about that.”
Another of the governor’s aides ushered Dan and Kinsky away from Scanwell. And Jane.
“Let’s hit the buffet line and get some appetizers,” Kinsky said, tugging at his collar. “I’m starving. And dinner’s going
to be stupid, I bet. No pastrami. No blintzes. Nothing but dumb Texas steaks.”
“You go. I’m not hungry.”Dan stood in the milling, swirling crowd and let the chatter and laughter and clink of glasses surround him as he kept his eyes riveted on Jane, standing beside Morgan Scanwell. She never looked his way. Not once.
A
sim al-Bashir traveled on a Tunisian passport. Tunisia was a moderate Arab nation, not known by Western intelligence to have links with international terrorism. Al-Bashir had actually been born in the city of Tunis, and kept a sumptuous home there, which eased any suspicions that an investigator might have.
Moreover, al-Bashir was a member of the board of directors of one of the largest oil companies in the world. As a director of Tricontinental Oil Corporation, he had legitimate business in America. The quarterly board meeting was scheduled to take place in Houston within two days.
His traveling secretary directed an assistant to handle al-Bashir’s considerable luggage while he escorted his employer to the white stretch limousine waiting for them at curbside. Without waiting for the luggage, the limo pulled into JFK’s thrumming, snarling traffic and headed for the Queensboro Bridge and Manhattan.
With the male secretary sitting up front with the chauffeur, al-Bashir leaned back patiently and watched the dreary traffic speed its growling, fume-spewing way past the gray and dismal houses huddled along the highway. The Americans prized their individual houses and their automobiles, their televisions and other luxuries. All dependent on energy,
he thought. Energy from electricity. Energy from oil. America grows fat and prosperous on Arab oil. Most of the other people of the world could only dream about the luxuries Americans take for granted. Dream and be envious. Envy is a powerful emotion, al-Bashir thought. Envy can breed hatred, and hate is the greatest motivator of them all.
He dozed slightly, but awoke when the limo’s tires suddenly changed the tone of their sound against the paving. They were on the Queensboro Bridge, he saw. He shifted in the seat and looked out to find the United Nations building. There it stood, by the East River. From where he was, al-Bashir could not see the ruins of the Brooklyn Bridge. The Americans were rebuilding it to look exactly as it had before the attack knocked it down.
My colleagues thought it a glorious day when the bridges were destroyed, al-Bashir remembered. A magnificent day. The faithful around the world celebrated their great victory. The Nine were overjoyed at their success. Al-Bashir had smiled and congratulated them, especially the Egyptian, who had brilliantly directed the complex operation.
Three bridges destroyed. Nearly five thousand Americans killed, many of them Jews. A day of wild celebration.
But to what end? he asked himself. The Americans swept into the Middle East in overwhelming force and no one would gainsay them, not even other Moslem nations.
Terrorism is the tactic of the desperate, the weak against the strong. Like a child throwing a stone through the window of a mansion. Yet it has its uses, al-Bashir conceded. In this long war we can use terrorists, both suicidal fanatics and brilliant planners like the Egyptian. But the war will be won as all wars are eventually won, by economic power. Mao Zedong wrote that power comes out of the barrel of a gun, but one must have the money to buy the guns. We will win this war because we will control the economic power of the oil industry. We must ruthlessly suppress any challenge to that power. Ruthlessly.
 
 
T
wo days later al-Bashir was in Houston, sitting at another conference table, much longer and more gleamingly polished than the one in the dilapidated Khartoum hotel. The boardroom of Tricontinental Oil reeked of wealth. Its walls were paneled with redwood. Its long sweeping windows looked out on the city of Houston, far below the lofty level of this skyscraper. The room was air-conditioned to the point where al-Bashir felt chilly. Texans and their air conditioning, he thought. Conspicuous waste of energy. Flaunting their affluence.
A table laden with drinks and finger foods ran across the back wall. The opposite wall was completely taken up by a new kind of computer screen that the technical people called a “smart wall.” Unfortunately, it wasn’t working properly this day. The board members had to rely on the small screens set into the table at each seat.
Like the other men around the table al-Bashir wore a conservative Western business suit and tie. Even the women were dressed in tailored blouses and skirted suits.
But crusty old Wendell T. Garrison, sitting in his powered wheelchair at the head of the table, was in shirtsleeves and a black onyx bolo tie, its silver-tipped strings hanging halfway down his wrinkled shirt front. He looks like an evil djinn, al-Bashir thought: shriveled and wizened, his bald pate speckled with liver spots, the wisps of his remaining hair dead white. But he has great power, enormous power. Just the touch of his fingertips can move nations.
This is the man I must defeat, al-Bashir told himself. To gain control of Tricontinental Oil, I must overcome Garrison.
The board meeting had been quite routine. The only real item of contention was over the corporation’s involvement in Iraq, where Tricontinental was rebuilding the Iraqi oil fields under contract to the U.S. government. The profit margin was slim, but Garrison insisted that they renew the contract at the same rate.
“When the reconstruction is finished and we start pumpin’ oil again,” he said in his grating, rasping voice,
“that’s
when we up the ante with the feds.”
One of the women halfway down the table pointed out
that Washington had promised to turn the oil fields back to the Iraqi government once the reconstruction was finished.
Garrison gave her one of his patented sour looks. “Yep, they’ll hand it back to the Iraqis, all right And specify that we run the operation.”
“Under contract to the Iraqi government,” the woman added.
“Under terms that we set,” Garrison said flatly.
Al-Bashir said nothing. No one asked his opinion. He was content to leave it at that.
Finally Garrison rasped, “That’s it, then, ’less there’s some new business.”
Al-Bashir raised his hand.
Garrison had already started to back his chair away from the table. Frowning, he said, “Mr. al-Bashir.” He pronounced it “awl-Basher.”
“There is the matter of the solar power satellite to be considered.”
Brows rose around the table.
“Astro Corporation?”
“They had that spaceship crash, didn’t they?”
“They’re finished. Going bankrupt.”
Garrison’s flinty eyes went crafty, though. “What about the solar power satellite?”
“I believe we should invest in it.”
That brought actual gasps of surprise.
“Invest in the competition?”
“Help that madman Randolph?”
“He wants to drive us out of business!”
Al-Bashir folded his hands on the table’s edge and patiently waited for them to quiet down.
Garrison made a hushing gesture with both his blueveined hands, then asked, “Why should we invest in that pipe dream?”
Smiling at the board chairman, al-Bashir calmly replied, “There are several reasons. First, it would make very favorable publicity for us. The public sees us as the big, bad corporate giant. For years they have been fed stories about how
the oil companies suppress any invention that threatens their grip on the world’s energy supply.”
One of the older directors humphed. “The pill that turns water into gasoline. I’ve heard that one all my life, just about.”
“Exactly,” said al-Bashir. “By lending Astro Corporation a helping hand, we show that we are not such monsters. We show that we are interested in the future.”
“Mighty expensive public relations,”Garrison grumbled. “Randolph’s going to need a billion or more to pull out of the hole he’s dug for himself.”
“There is another reason, also,” al-Bashir said.
All eyes were on him.
“What if it works? What if this solar power satellite actually proves to be successful? Shouldn’t we own part of it?”
“I get it! A strategic partnership,” said the youngest member of the board, down at the end of the table.
Garrison frowned at the junior director and pointed out in his rasping voice, “If we don’t bail Astro out, the power satellite won’t work because Randolph will be busted. So there’s no danger of it being successful.”
“I beg to differ,” al-Bashir said. “Even if Randolph goes bankrupt, the power satellite will still be up there. Someone else might buy it on the cheap and make it work. Then they will get the glory—and the profits. Not we.”
“Who would be that crazy?”
“The Japanese, perhaps,” al-Bashir replied mildly.
Silence fell in the boardroom. One by one the directors shifted their gaze from al-Bashir to the head of the table, to Garrison.
The chairman was staring straight at al-Bashir and tapping his fingernails on the tabletop, obviously thinking it over. No one said a word. For long moments the only sound in the boardroom was Garrison’s absent tap-tap-tapping.
“We maybe could pull a billion out of the exploration budget,” the old man said at last. “Send a few geologists back to their universities for a year.”
The directors stirred to life. A few argued, mildly, against the idea. But al-Bashir knew that it was merely a formality.
Garrison had accepted the idea of buying into a possible competitor. Al-Bashir was pleased. It will be much easier to destroy the very idea of power satellites from inside Randolph’s Astro Corporation.
BOOK: Powersat (The Grand Tour)
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