by Bova, Ben
“I wondered about that, Dan. There are powerful forces opposing us. The international oil interests don’t want anyone to succeed with a power satellite.”
“You mean the Arabs,” Dan said.
Yamagata shook his head, dead serious. “I mean the international oil interests. Arabs are part of the bloc, of course, but there are others, including Americans right there in your state of Texas.”
“Tricontinental? You mean Garrison?”
“Among others.”
“He wants to buy into Astro Corporation,” Dan said.
Yamagata hesitated again, obviously thinking fast. “Remember the story of the Trojan horse, my friend.”
Now Dan hesitated. He remembered his father’s advice: Whenever somebody calls you friend, check your pockets. At length he asked, “Have you had any problems like this? Sabotage, I mean.”
“No,” Yamagata said, a trace of a smile curving his lips slightly. “We are not as far advanced on our program as you are. And our workforce is entirely Japanese now. No more gaijin workers, such as you.”
Dan thought, That’s one way to keep internal security tight: hire only people you know.
“I called to give you good news,” Yamagata said, his smile widening. “My board of directors has approved my suggestion that we offer you our help. We can provide you with transportation to and from your powersat on Yamagata rockets.”
“From Japan?”
“Yes, our launch center at Kagoshima.”
“At what price?”
Yamagata said, “As I understand it, the heavy lifting is finished. What you need now is primarily transport for engineers and technicians.”
Nodding, Dan added, “Plus their life-support supplies and some materials, electronics assemblies for the most part.”
“Yes, that’s what I thought.”
“At what price?” Dan repeated.
“Zero.”
Dan leaned back in his desk chair. “Sai, should I start counting my fingers or my toes?”
Yamagata laughed again. “You don’t trust your old friend? The man who hired you when you were just a puppy?”
“And threw me in with a bunch of roughnecks whose idea of fun was busting a gaijin’s nose?”
“You look better for it,” Yamagata said jovially. “You were too pretty before.”
“Sai, what do you want in exchange for free rocket rides?”
Yamagata’s smile faded a little. “A strategic partnership between Yamagata Industries and Astro Manufacturing.”
Dan hesitated just long enough to show Yamagata his respect. Then, “On what basis?”
“You grant us license to manufacture your spaceplane in Japan.”
Alarm bells began tingling in the back of Dan’s mind. “That would bring your costs down when you start assembling your powersat in orbit.”
“Yes, of course. That is why you developed the spaceplane, isn’t it? That is why we need it.”
“So you can compete against Astro more efficiently.”
Yamagata shook his head slowly, like a teacher disappointed with a student. “Dan, Dan, the global energy market is worth trillions of U.S. dollars. Together, you and I, we can carve out a big slice of that pie. We can corner the solar power satellite segment of the market.”
Dan gave him a grin. “Sai, I can grab a big part of the solar power satellite market all by myself.”
“If you don’t go broke first,” Yamagata retorted, with an upraised finger.
“There is that,” Dan admitted.
“Work with me on this, my friend. Why should we compete when together we can make many, many billions?”
Yeah, Dan asked himself, Why should we compete? But he heard himself say, “Sai, I appreciate your offer. I truly do. But I’ll have to think about it. Give me a few days?”
“Of course,” Yamagata said generously. Then his expression hardened. “But remember the Trojan horse.”
“I will, Sai. I will,” Dan said, thinking that the Trojan horse might well be Japanese.
HOUSTON, TEXAS
In his lush penthouse orangery of an office, Garrison sat back in his powered wheelchair and studied the man sitting in the leather-covered armchair before his desk.
Asim al-Bashir had been on Tricontinental’s board of directors for almost five years. He’d never made much of a fuss about anything at the board meetings; Garrison thought that the man had worked steadily to win friends for himself among the other board members. No, not just friends, Garrison thought: allies. For five years he’s been gathering supporters, forming his own little clique on the board. And now, at the quarterly meeting of the board he pipes up and takes the initiative on this power satellite business.
At least he’s not the oily rug-merchant type, Garrison thought, looking al-Bashir over. I can’t picture him in one of those bathrobes and hoods those sneaking A-rabs wear. Al-Bashir looked quite normal in a regular business suit and tie. His face was round, with his dark brown hair slicked straight back from the forehead. His skin was the color of light cigarette tobacco. His beard was neatly trimmed, not one of those long bushy things, and his eyes were light and clear, not shifty at all.
Yet there’s something about him, Garrison said to himself. He’s too damned relaxed, too cool, like he knows a lot more than he’s telling.
Garrison had checked out al-Bashir six ways from Sunday when the Tunisian first joined Tricontinental’s board. The man owned enough stock to deserve a seat on the board, but Garrison didn’t trust any Moslem. Or Christian, for that matter. He even pulled strings in Washington and had the feds investigate the man’s background. No trace of a problem, no connections to terrorism or radical Islamic movements. As far as Garrison could find, Asim al-Bashir was a very successful Tunisian businessman, nothing more.
Over the years al-Bashir had sat quietly at board meetings, seldom raising his voice, usually voting the way Garrison wanted. He wasn’t a troublemaker. His major interest seemed to be making money. And slowly, quietly, building a power base for himself, Garrison thought.
Leaning back in his wheelchair, Garrison said, “Well, Randolph’s taken a bite of the apple.”
For a moment al-Bashir looked puzzled, which pleased Garrison. Then he said, “Ah, Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden.”
Garrison chuckled. “Not much gets past you, does it?”
Al-Bashir dipped his chin slightly, accepting the compliment.
“How long’re you gonna be in Houston?” Garrison asked.
“I have a meeting in Singapore in two days. It’s not terribly important, though. I can postpone it if necessary. But next week I must be in Beijing.”
“The coal deal?”
“Yes. I believe the Chinese government is ready to accept our terms. By this time next year we could be selling Chinese coal across half of Asia.”
“I don’t like it,” Garrison said flatly. “We’ll be competing with ourselves. We’re in the oil business; why should we be selling coal to people who oughtta be buying our oil?” He pronounced the word “oll.”
“We are in the energy business,” al-Bashir countered. “Our aim is to make profits. If we can do that by selling coal, we will sell coal. Or camel chips, if we can make a profit at it.”
“I still don’t like it,” Garrison insisted. “Why, if we just—”
“It makes no difference what you like, old man,” said al-Bashir, suddenly as hard and sharp as a steel blade.
Garrison actually flinched back in his chair as if he’d been slapped. But he recovered quickly. “Nobody talks to me like that, sonny.”
“I do. You may be the patriarch of this corporation, but it’s time for a new generation to take the leadership of Tricontinental.”
“New leadership? Meaning you?”
“Of course.” Al-Bashir made a frosty smile. “Oh, you can remain as chairman of the board. I wouldn’t humiliate you by voting you out. But you must understand that I have the votes and, if necessary, I will call on them.”
Smiling like a rattler, al-Bashir said, “You inherited a profitable company at a time when the oil industry was booming. You rode the wave, quite successfully, I admit. But it took no great genius to achieve what you have.”
“If I could stand on my feet—”
“You can’t, and we both know it. Times are changing, old man, and Tricontinental must change with them. I will see to that.”
Garrison stared at the man, his chest heaving, his heart thundering.
“Come, come,” al-Bashir said, his smile warming slightly. “We shouldn’t be enemies. We both want the same thing: power and profits for Tricontinental Oil.”
“And you make all the decisions,” Garrison muttered.
“Most of them will be exactly as you would make them, I assure you.”
“Except for this goddamn Chinese coal business.”
“In the long run, Chinese coal will make our oil more valuable, not less. Every ton of coal we sell in Asia this year means thousands of barrels of oil we can sell at higher prices in years to come.”
“The goddamn environmentalists don’t like coal.”
“That’s of no consequence,” al-Bashir said. “Besides, oil is crucial to the petrochemical industry. It’s much too valuable to burn.”
“By Christ, you sound like that pantywaist Shah of Iran.”
“Pahlavi? He was right about that.”
“Lot of good it did him.”
Al-Bashir dismissed the subject with an impatient wave of his hand. “No matter. We must think of the future.”
“Like this power satellite contraption?”
“Yes,” al-Bashir replied, his tone changing noticeably. “The power satellite is important to my plans.”
The two men stared at each other for a long, silent moment: Garrison wrinkled, old, slumped in his wheelchair but determined to hold onto his power; al-Bashir smooth, elegant, obviously enjoying this moment of revealing his true strength.
At length Garrison said, “Reason I asked about your travel plans was I wanted t’know if you could be in Austin this Saturday.”
“Why should I go to Austin?” al-Bashir asked with just a touch of haughtiness.
“The governor of Texas is gonna announce that he’s running for president.”
“Scanwell?”
“Morgan Scanwell,” said Garrison. “And he’s gonna make energy independence a big part of his platform.”
Al-Bashir stroked his beard absently. Garrison could see the wheels turning behind his eyes. “Energy independence,” he murmured.
Pointing a bony finger, Garrison asked, “I want to know what your real reason is for wanting us to buy into Randolph’s power satellite.”
For just a flash of an instant al-Bashir’s eyes flared. And Garrison said to himself, Ah-hah. There is something going on!
Quickly regaining his composure, al-Bashir said smoothly, “I believe it is important for Tricontinental to diversify. Coal, nuclear power, natural gas, even this far-out idea of a power satellite—we should be involved in every form of energy production.”
“Save your pretty speeches for the public relations flacks,” Garrison snapped. “What’s the real reason?”
Al-Bashir smiled, revealing teeth so perfect that they had to be the result of expensive orthodontics.
“Well?” Garrison demanded.
“Very well then.” Al-Bashir hunched forward slightly. Garrison leaned toward him and placed both his liverspotted hands on his desktop.
“As I told you, Tricontinental is in the energy business, not merely oil,” al-Bashir said in a near whisper. “It is vital to our long-term interests to control as much of the energy market as possible. Not merely oil. We must control all the possible competitors against oil, and that includes Randolph and his powersat.”
“Control ’em,” Garrison muttered.
Al-Bashir nodded gravely. “Yes. Not merely invest in them. Not merely dabble in them. We must control the world’s energy supplies.” And he closed his right hand into a tight, hard fist.
He’s right, Garrison said to himself. The sumbitch is right. And now he’s out in the open. He thinks he can shove me aside, make me into a figurehead. He wants power, pure and simple, and he’s smart about getting it. But he’s dead wrong if he thinks I’m gonna lay down and let him walk over me.
As al-Bashir rode in his limousine back to his hotel suite, he called his travel secretary to cancel his meeting in Singapore and make accommodations for him in Austin for the weekend.
Folding his cell phone and slipping it into his jacket pocket, he picked up the intercom microphone. Up front, on the other side of the soundproof glass partition, his chauffeur glanced into the rearview mirror at him.
“Roberto, the business of the Astro technician must be finished.”
The chauffeur nodded.
“You say that Randolph is tracking down the same leads that Tenny followed. Sooner or later he will find our man.”
“Yeah. The pigeon’s gettin’ pretty damn spooked. He wants more money so he can leave the country.”
“Give him what he wants. Then terminate him when he least expects it.”
“Right.”
“And make it look like an accident this time. No more explosions.”
Al-Bashir could see little more of Roberto in the rearview mirror than his dark eyes. It seemed to him that Roberto smiled.
“You wanted t‘make people think that hydrogen stuff is dangerous, di’n’t you? That blast knocked off two targets all at one time.”
This Latino is becoming impertinent, al-Bashir thought. But he smiled back and said mildly, “No more explosions. I want the man’s death to look like a suicide. From remorse.”
“Yeah, sure,” said Roberto grudgingly as he swung the limousine into the hotel’s busy driveway.
MATAGORDA ISLAND, TEXAS
The setting sun was low enough to send a shaft of light lanc-Ting through Dan’s office window. He saw that it was in Lynn Van Buren’s eyes, making the woman squint painfully, so he got up and lowered the blinds.
“Whew, thanks,” said the engineer.
“Why didn’t you say something?”
She grinned at him. “Didn’t have to, chief. You caught my body language.”
Lynn Van Buren was an unlikely engineer. Her education at Caltech had been in biophysics, with a minor in mathematics. She’d been an experimentalist, a lab rat who enjoyed getting her hands dirty and tinkering with balky equipment that frustrated less-patient researchers. She got into the engineering end of the business when she started working on biophysics experiments that were going to be performed in space, completely automated after riding into orbit aboard a rocket booster.
In time, she found herself more fascinated by the rockets than by what they carried. She was one of the earliest hires when Dan started Astro Manufacturing Corporation. Within the first year of the company’s operation she became Joe Tenny’s top assistant.
Lynn Van Buren sat before Dan’s desk now, a feisty grin on her face. She was in her early forties, short and chunky, dimpled chin, her mouse-brown hair cut short, her hazel eyes bright with good-humored intelligence. She was wearing a dark blue pantsuit with an incongruous string of pearls around her neck.
“So what’s the latest from Hangar B?” Dan asked.
“That’s why I wanted to see you, chief. Number two’s ready to fly.”
Despite everything, Dan broke into a smile. “She’s ready?”
“We did the final checkout this afternoon. I just had to rush over and tell you in person.”
Dan’s elation quickly faded. “The FAA won’t be finished with their investigation until hell freezes over.”
“They won’t let you fly her
until they’re done?”
“Yep. Can’t say I blame them … .”
Van Buren’s expression turned crafty. “Even if the flight’s crewless?”
“Unmanned?” Dan asked.
“Crewless,” Van Buren replied firmly. “We can fly the bird remotely. We did it for the first one, remember?”
“Before Hannah took it up, right.”
“So the FAA won’t stop you from flying it crewless, will they?”
Dan mulled it over for a moment. “I don’t know. I’ll have to talk to Passeau about it.”
Near midnight, the hangar was quiet and deserted except for Dan Randolph, sitting in his darkened office, the only light coming from his desktop computer’s screen. He stared at the invitation that had just arrived via e-mail:
The Honorable Morgan Scanwell, Governor of Texas, requests the pleasure of your company at a cocktail reception and dinner Saturday, August 28 …
The invitation was accompanied by a video mail message from Jane: “Dan, please come and join us. Morgan’s going to announce his candidacy the following Monday morning, and we want to bring together a group of supporters for a personal evening with him.”
And rain makes applesauce, Dan said to himself. Why should I go to Austin? To help Scanwell? He hasn’t done a thing to help me.
In all honesty, he thought, what can the governor of Texas do for me? Maybe if he ever gets to be president of the United States he can help, but until then it’s all talk, all smoke and mirrors. And Astro will be in receivership by the time the next president takes the oath of office.
But he stared at Jane’s face, frozen on his screen. And he knew he would go to Austin, or the South Pole, or Mars, to see her again. No matter what the pain.
Clicking on the REPLY icon, Dan put on a smile and said jovially, “Thanks for the invitation, Jane. I’ll be there, in dinner jacket and black tie and dancing shoes.”
