“Profile check complete,” McManus reported. “All systems are go. I repeat-all systems are go.”
***
Three miles from the runway, the numbers ticked down on countdown clocks mounted on poles before the outdoor observation decks. The area was packed with over fifteen thousand spectators. People were cheering, many waving flags. The countdown of the flashing digital numbers was read aloud in a steady chant until the twenty-second mark when out on the runway the twin engines of the Naiad suddenly burst to life. The sound started as a low whine and quickly built up to a steady roar. Though the craft remained fixed in place, the fiery exhaust created shimmering heat waves that swept over the blast shield and boiled into the sky.
Barely audible over the rolling thunder, an announcer bellowed the final countdown from ten to zero over the grandstand speakers.
The power-up began as a low rumble, so deep in pitch its sound was felt more than heard. Then the Naiad leapt forward. The nose dipped as the front landing strut compressed to absorb the massive surge of power. Five seconds after primary ignition, each engine was producing nearly six million pounds of thrust, accelerating the orbiter to nearly one hundred miles per hour as it streaked down the runway. The crowd rose to its feet.
Eight seconds later, twelve seconds after primary ignition, the Naiad reached a speed of two hundred miles per hour. It was still accelerating when small puffs of smoke kicked up from the wheels. Then the orbiter lifted from the runway and arced into the cloudless sky. As the Naiad streaked toward the desert horizon, the roar grew fainter, replaced by the thundering cheers of the crowd.
***
Inside the Launch Control Tower, work continued. Noah Gettleman felt the tightness in his chest ease as the Naiad announced power-up of its engines to ninety-three percent. The most dangerous part of the launch was over, and now System Ops would take over communication duties. Gettleman would be back later to check on their progress. The Naiad had thirty-two hours before it would match orbit with the International Space Station in preparation for docking.
“Good job, people,” he said over the open channel. There was no cheering or applause. Most everyone remained at his or her terminal. The controllers lived by the maxim that the only successful mission was a completed one. There would be time for celebration after the Naiad was back on Earth.
Gettleman slumped into his chair, tossed his headset on the desk, and leaned forward to rub his temples. A feeling of sudden emptiness tempered his elation. Somehow, it seemed a letdown that all the work, stress, and effort expended over the last few months could be over so quickly. His job came down to single, defining moments. This had been one of them.
“Problems, Noah?”
Gettleman swiveled around and looked up to see Brian Ebeling, one of his Assistant Flight Directors. Ebeling was here to handle operations for the afternoon.
“What did you say?” Gettleman asked.
“Anything I should know about before I take over?”
Gettleman shook his head.
The thin, prematurely balding man handed the Flight Director a thick file.
“These are the expenditure reports you wanted.”
Gettleman opened the file. “What took you so long to get this to me?”
Ebeling took a small step back in surprise. “Do you think I’m crazy? I wasn’t going to bother you before the launch.”
Gettleman flipped through the pages. “Did you find what I wanted?”
“Yeah,” Ebeling said with a frown. “But never, ever ask me to do that again. All I wanted was one list of costs. They wanted to give me the numbers sixteen different ways. By month, by quarter, by projected versus actual costs. By God, engineers should never be subjected to the inquisition of an accounting department.”
Gettleman managed a small smile. “It must have been horrible, Brian. I'm terribly sorry.”
“You could have pulled these numbers yourself, Noah. What’s going on?”
Gettleman turned away to look out over the trenches below.
“Noah...”
“It doesn’t concern you,” Gettleman said with more of an edge than he intended. Then he added in a calmer voice, “Something one of the designers mentioned made me want to check out what we're spending in replacement parts. I was just curious. That’s all. No big deal. There’s not a -” He stopped abruptly, realizing that he was starting to make a big deal of it by his continued explanation.
Ebeling was still eyeing him suspiciously. Then he picked up Noah's clipboard and skimmed the checklists. A few controllers were away from their stations now. The others were left to talk the loops and track the Naiad. On the center wall monitor, the orbiter itself was moving in and out of focus while ground-based cameras continued to track the craft as it climbed into the darkening sky. Ebeling smiled at the image. He looked back to see Gettleman avidly flipping through the expenditure report. He was running his fingers over the pages, his lips moving as he read to himself. Gettleman's interest in the reports seemed more than just idle curiosity.
“Congratulations again,” Ebeling said.
Not bothering to respond, Gettleman stood, turned aside, and continued reading the report. As he stepped down from the upper deck, there was scattered applause over the general announcement that the Naiad had reached escape velocity and was now two minutes from achieving orbital altitude.
Gettleman did not even glance up.
CHAPTER SIX
Navigating his silver Porsche Boxster up Amsterdam Avenue, Samson Tyler drove as fast as traffic would allow, making the trip a stop-and-go ride at each intersection. Rush hour traffic was already building from commuters trying to leave the city. The Broadway Local would have been faster, but Tyler hated public transportation. He avoided subways when he could; though the privilege and convenience of owning a car in New York City carried its own price. Right now that price was time, and a waste of a powerful six-cylinder, three hundred and twenty horsepower engine.
“Yeah, I think the Department of Justice is going to be on our collective asses for the foreseeable future.” Dusty was speaking to him over the cell phone. “Based on the material they’re targeting, I'm guessing that they think we’re illegally purchasing military scrap material.”
“Military scrap?” Tyler asked, adjusting his earpiece. “That explains the DOD agent this morning. What's our relationship with the Department of Defense?”
“There isn’t one. We buy surplus government material from a few independent outfits. We don’t buy weapons or anything. Mostly electronics.”
“We get the material at a bargain, I gather.”
“It saves a few bucks on our R&D.”
Tyler smiled. When it could, the company saved money in other ways. Labor costs were one of them. Templar Enterprises compensated most of its employees - from the mailroom workers to upper management - with generous stock options. With Templar’s salary base lagging the industry average, the options had helped the company stay competitive in attracting and keeping talent.
Tyler didn’t own any company stock. He had refused stock options during his initial salary negotiations. Since it would have been demoralizing to others if they knew that one of their key executives refused to own company stock, the terms of Samson Tyler’s compensation package were kept very quiet. He made less money than he would at another corporation, but that didn’t bother him much. After all, a thirty-two year old general counsel was virtually unheard of in a billion-dollar corporation.
“So, who are these ‘outfits’ that we purchase scrap material from?” he asked.
“Jacob is preparing that information for review.”
Tyler slammed on his brakes as a cab abruptly cut him off. He smacked his horn and came to a quick stop at the intersection.
“Did you get any info while the FBI was casing the place?”
“Alas, they were immune to our charms,” Dusty replied lightly. “They were all business. They made off with plenty of computer hard drive copies and took a lot of
paperwork.”
“How about our motion for a hearing?”
“Denise is handling that.”
Tyler shook his head. “Have her hold off for now.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to run this matter to a judge just yet. If and when we do, I want us to be fully prepared. Until they start putting together a case for a grand jury, I want to keep this quiet.”
“If that's what you think is best…” Dusty did not sound convinced. “So I take it you didn’t have any luck with the U.S. Attorney’s office?”
“None,” Tyler said. He made a quick acceleration as the light turned green. “Since Rebecca Taber's playing it close to the vest, we will, too.”
“What if we have a real problem?”
“If the government wants a legal brawl, we’ll give them one. Right now I’m more concerned about the media exposure.”
The assistant general counsel grunted. “Think we’ll be able to keep a lid on this?”
“Are you kidding, Dusty? I’m sure it’s been leaked already. Remember our last tangle with the government?”
“Actually, I don’t. That was before I joined the company.”
“Fun times. But don’t worry, we'll get through this.”
“One way or another. What are you doing tonight?”
“I'm going to Scarsdale.”
Dusty chuckled. “Going to see the old man? You have my sympathies.”
“You can join me if you want.”
“No thanks, pal. I’ll be spending the night working in the office, where it’s nice and safe.”
***
Samson Tyler’s home was located in a rustic brownstone off 72nd Street and 8th Avenue, near Central Park's West Side. The second floor apartment was surprisingly fashionable for a “bachelor pad”, thanks to a brief but intense relationship with an interior decorator some months back. The colors were earthy browns and greens. Immaculate due to lack of use, a center island divided the open kitchen. A large-screen television and stereo equipment dominated the opposite wall. The sleeping area was an open loft area set above an alcove library. A spiral staircase with a wrought-iron railing connected the two levels.
Keys in hand and jacket slung over his shoulder, Tyler paused two steps inside the door. Not only were the lights on, but there was a young woman sitting cross-legged on his couch, reading a book. As the door clicked shut, the woman glanced up. She was dressed in jeans and a gray Colombia University T-shirt. Her brown hair cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. Her face was open, with the hint of a smile on her lips.
“What are you doing here?” Tyler set his briefcase down on the hardwood floor.
“That’s a hell of a greeting, Samson.” She got up, walked over, and kissed him on the lips. “You’re home early.”
“I’m heading back out. What’s going on?”
“Finals are coming up, and there are too many distractions in the library.” Teresa Keller was a part-time student at Columbia University, finishing her Masters in child psychology. She paid for tuition by working several part-time jobs - including housecleaning.
Tyler hung his jacket in the closet and walked over. He gazed at the pile of open textbooks scattered across his coffee table and shook his head.
“All that work, all that studying, just to become a glorified social worker - a kid shrink. Why not do something -”
“That will pay better?” She laughed. He always asked the same question whenever he found her studying. “Not all rewards are measured by the size of a paycheck, Samson. I love what I do. Despite your twisted fantasies, I'm never going to law school.”
He nodded solemnly and tried hard not to smile.
“But you might be right,” she added thoughtfully, “I could probably make more money if I just did my cleaning gig full-time.” Then she noticed his expression. She followed his gaze back to the couch, where her apron was balled up against the arm. She walked over and picked it up. “I’m finished here, anyway. Guess I lost track of time... Sorry about that.”
Her voice trailed off as they faced each other uncomfortably. This was the worst part of their relationship - what Tyler called 'the housekeeping situation'.
He lightly clasped his hands behind his back as he glanced around the place. Teresa cleaned his apartment twice a week, during the day when he wasn't home. Although the two were now seeing each other exclusively, Teresa still insisted on doing the job that Tyler had originally hired her to do almost a year ago.
At the time, it had been awkward enough for him to ask out his housekeeper. Now his girlfriend was cleaning his apartment each week, and he paid her for it. Although they rarely had time to see each other lately, the arrangement still bothered him.
He’d never intended their relationship to be anything other than business, but something about Teresa intrigued him from the moment he met her. He was surprised, and a little embarrassed, to ask out a stranger who was cleaning his apartment, but he was even more surprised to have her accept without hesitation.
For their first date, he had taken her to a small restaurant in the Village. He had no serious intentions; he just wanted to know more about her. Teresa was a sharp, capable woman who was working her way through graduate school. She had grown up in the city, and hoped to work with disadvantaged children. She lived in a rundown apartment in Brooklyn, was a staunch liberal, and had just returned from an exchange program in Europe six months earlier. Tyler found her fascinating, and by the end of the night, he had asked her (or had she asked him?) to go sightseeing the next weekend.
After their second date, they both decided to see each other on a more regular basis. Tyler told Teresa that he was going to look for another housekeeper. But the arrangement didn’t bother Teresa. She insisted that their work relationship had nothing to do with their personal one, and that as long as they never confused the two, they would be fine. Tyler found that to be very pragmatic - a trait of hers that he found very attractive. He agreed to keep her as his housekeeper and offered to pay her double, knowing that she could use the money. She refused, telling him that she would just continue to do her job as they agreed, and they would keep their personal relationship a separate matter.
And it had been that way ever since.
He cleared his throat. “The place looks great, Teresa. Thanks.” Then he loosened his tie as he headed for the staircase that led to the upstairs loft.
“Glad you appreciate it,” she called out, “considering that you forgot to pay me last week.”
Halfway up the steps, Tyler pulled his wallet from his back pocket. “Here,” he said, tossing the billfold to the couch. “Take what I owe you. I have to get ready for a dinner engagement.”
Teresa raised an eyebrow. “A dinner engagement?”
“That's right. With a colleague.”
“That sounds like a code word for a date,” she noted with a frown. “Something we haven’t done in weeks. Tell me, is this colleague pretty, Samson?”
At the top of the stairs, Tyler paused and thought for a moment. “No.” He shook his head. “No, he’s not.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“It’s best to let the investors see that you’re willing to put everything you own into the venture,” W. Sinclair Dorian once confided to Samson Tyler. “If you won’t put up your own money, why should they put up theirs?” With that philosophy in mind, Dorian had sold his sprawling New Canaan, Connecticut mansion during his acquisition of Templar Enterprises and moved to a smaller home in Scarsdale, an affluent New York City bedroom community.
Similar to other estates in the neighborhood, the six-bedroom colonial home was set on a secluded, acre lot. An eight-foot high wall surrounded the perimeter, maintained by an elaborate electronic security system.
The breeze was cool, and shadows were growing long from the setting sun as Tyler pulled his Porsche Boxter off the street and came to a stop before the wrought-iron gate. The convertible top was down, and the engine growled like a living beast.
He peered over his sunglasses to eye the old house and the crisply manicured grounds, dotted with old elm and maple trees. He smiled wryly. So, this was how billionaires went slumming.
The guard in the brick gatehouse recognized Tyler and the gate rolled open. Tyler drove up the circular driveway and parked before the arched front entry. The brown Tudor house was vine-covered, with bright white trim. Low hedges trimmed the ground and walkway. Tyler walked up the brick path and rang the doorbell. While he waited, he removed his sunglasses and tucked them into his inside jacket pocket.
The deadbolt clicked and the door flung open to reveal Shannon Kiel, Sinclair Dorian's personal assistant. She was dressed in jeans and a red blouse. In her early forties, Shannon was blonde, with a round, almost pudgy face. Her cheeks were dotted with light freckles. She looked flushed, as if she had just run to the door.
When she saw who it was, she slumped against the doorjamb and exhaled. She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re early,” she said flatly.
“Traffic was light,” Tyler replied with a smile. He reached up to adjust the knot on his tie. “Is this a bad time? Should I come back later… or just wait out here until you're ready?”
She threw a quick glance over her shoulder. “No…come in.”
Sinclair Dorian had hired Shannon eight months ago. Though Dorian insisted that she was simply an administrative assistant, it was obvious to everyone close to him that Shannon was his personal nurse. She was always with him now, and doted over him like an overprotective mother.
Tyler followed her through the parlor and down the main hall. Their footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor. Tyler looked around, taking the place in. Several landscape paintings stared down from the oak-paneled walls. They were all watercolors, painted by Sinclair Dorian. Other photographs showed a smiling, younger Sinclair with U.S. Presidents, business leaders or famous entertainment personalities. Despite the artwork and photographs, the house had a lack of personal touch. It reminded Tyler of a museum, where everything had its own place, arranged specifically for show.
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