Powersat (The Grand Tour) (39 page)

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Authors: Ben Bova

BOOK: Powersat (The Grand Tour)
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A
l-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.
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.
 
 
W
illiamson 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.
A
pril 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.”
 
 
T
he 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 until 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.
 
 
I
n 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.
So, as he bent over his work and waited for Williamson to join him, he forced his mind to accept the idea that the Earth was below him, down, and he was floating high above it all. He had lost track of time and did not know when he should stop for prayer. Allah would forgive him for that, he felt. This work must be completed. There will be plenty of time for prayer afterward, once the work is completed and we have nothing to do but wait until our oxygen runs out.
That must be South America, he thought, gazing past the straight metal edge of the giant antenna. The Pacific Ocean glittered bright and deeply blue, although there were lighter hues around the islands that were almost directly beneath them. South America darkened the edge of the curving globe, smeared with clouds, creased with mountains that looked like puny wrinkles from this height. Mecca is on the other side of the world, Bouchachi knew. The Holy City can never be seen from this satellite.
He looked up from his work and blinked sweat from his eyes. He felt hot inside his spacesuit, soaked with perspiration, despite the fact that just outside the fabric of the suit the temperature must be close to absolute zero. No air. No life.
I cannot see Mecca from here, he repeated to himself. This giant machine is the work of devils, put into space as far away from the Holy City as the godless Americans could place it. It took an effort to straighten up from his bent posture. Turning his entire weightless body, he looked out at the vast expanse of the power satellite. It stretched for miles, huge, glittering darkly, a mammoth construction of evil. Its very size frightened him; that, and the knowledge that evil men could construct such an infernal machine.
Straining his eyes, he thought he could see the brown bulk of Mexico and the barren gray desert of the southwestern United States. Yes, and farther north, beneath a swirl of clouds, lay Florida. And beyond that, Washington. The capital of the Great Satan. Where their president will make his last speech later this day.

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