Shattered Legacy (21 page)

The auditorium was packed, and Gettleman cursed himself for being late. He quietly slipped in through the side door and made his way across the front aisle. In the dim light, he nodded greetings to several colleagues before settling into his reserved seat in the front row beside Jack Kroft. Gettleman would have skipped this meeting had Kroft not strongly ‘suggested’ earlier that he attend.

So here he was, listening to yet another project manager drone on about future launch timetables. At that moment Gettleman realized with a start that at least some of the people in the room must have been aware of the
Naiad’s
engine cowl flaw. He glanced back at the crowd, wondering how many of them knew.

Kroft leaned over and spoke softly from the side of this mouth. “You’re late.”

“I had to speak with Steve Burkett.”

Kroft eyes narrowed. “Media relations? Was it anything important?”

Gettleman ignored the question.

As the speaker finished his opening remarks, a projection screen behind the podium lit up with a spinning image of Templar Enterprises' corporate logo.

“I’d like to introduce our Agency Director, Jack Kroft.”

With an effort, Kroft pushed himself up from his seat and walked to the stage. Strained applause sounded from the crowd. He briefly shook hands with the speaker as they crossed paths. He moved behind the podium and took a moment to arrange his notes. Then he looked up and gave the audience a broad smile.

“Thanks for coming here today. This is probably the last time we’ll all be together before the
Naiad
returns, so I’d like to take this opportunity to thank you all for a job well done. The world has been watching us, and you've done a remarkable job.”

He paused as the crowd broke into light applause. Then the projection screen flashed to an image of the
Naiad
in orbital flight above the crescent earth.

Then the agency director ran through more particulars of the mission, mostly for the benefit of the press, who occupied most of the first two rows.

Gettleman felt that the back-patting could have waited until
after
the mission was completed. He was glad that he was not giving the speech, though in all reality, he should have been the one on the stage. But Jack Kroft wanted the job, and when it came down to it, Gettleman really didn’t mind. Public speaking was not one of his strengths.

A long silence brought Gettleman back to attention. Another schematic drawing appeared on the screen. Gettleman frowned. It looked like a variant of the current orbiters, a prototype he had seen in conceptual proposals.

Kroft gestured to the image. “Final design drafts have been completed for the Orbital Transport Carrier. The OTC is a modified Templar Enterprises Orbiter with an expanded cargo bay designed specifically for passenger service. It will become the premier space tourism and transport vehicle of the twenty-first century. Like our current orbiters, the OTC Mark Two will take off and land like a conventional aircraft.”

More murmurs ran through the crowd. Gettleman crossed his arms and hunched back in his seat. To announce the next-generation orbiter before the first had even completed a successful mission was a bit audacious. The OTC was at best a year off, and that was assuming everything went as planned and their funding remained intact. Those were some big assumptions, even for a bureaucratic optimist like Jack Kroft.

“We plan to shop the OTC to several aerospace companies with the hopes of creating a joint manufacturing venture. Several companies have expressed interest. But that, of course, is in the future.” Kroft closed his folder and smiled. “Right now I have a very special guest who would like to share a few words with us.”

Kroft stepped to one side of the stage as the image of W. Sinclair Dorian flickered and appeared on the giant screen. He sat in a high-backed chair behind a large oak desk, apparently at his private office in his home. He waited, motionless, for nearly ten seconds before he spoke.

“I’d like to congratulate everyone,” he began with a smile. He cleared his throat. “Thanks to your trailblazing work, we took the first steps in realizing the full potential of private space flight. Today, dozens of private corporations are joining us in creating a new, vibrant industry of space exploration.”

There was a round of applause, but Dorian hardly paused in his speech. “In times to come, you will be able to say to your children and grandchildren that you were there at the very beginning. You were there when Templar Enterprises opened up an entire new world, and when, for a shining moment, we alone held the determination and will to succeed - to forge a new era of human exploration.”

Gettleman frowned. He noticed that the sky outside the window behind Dorian was dim. It appeared to be either the light of early morning or early evening. Since it was mid-morning in New Mexico, it must have been around noon in New York. Though no one had suggested otherwise, Gettleman suspected that Dorian's message had been prerecorded.

Dorian continued. “I know that I’ve been given a lot of credit for Templar’s success. But as I've said before, our success is due to you and to the millions who support and believe in us. To those of you gathered today, I would like to personally say 'thank you'. Be proud. We’re making history.”

The image faded from the screen as the audience broke into thunderous applause. A few members stood, quickly joined by others. Soon the entire room rose in a standing ovation. Gettleman looked around and slowly stood to join in the applause.

Jack Kroft returned to the podium and, over the noise of the audience, thanked everyone for attending. As everyone began filing out of the room, Gettleman remained seated, staring at the large, blank screen, thinking.

Exploration was about risk. It was about putting everything on the line for the big payoff. Sinclair Dorian understood that.

The
Naiad
was by far the largest, most expensive spacecraft ever built. It was without peer. If it failed, no one would build another craft like it for years, perhaps decades. If Gettleman raised an unnecessary alarm about the craft’s safety, he could do terrible damage to the reputation of the program.

But if he kept silent and something happened…

He bounced his fists off the arms of the chair. He wondered what Sinclair Dorian would do in this situation. Would he blow the whistle or would he keep his mouth shut and hope everything worked out all right?

In truth, Gettleman had no idea what Sinclair Dorian would do.

Or what he would do himself.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“Welcome back.” Cindy Robertson gave a small smile from behind her desk as Samson Tyler returned from his lunch break. “These are for you.” She handed Tyler a large stack of slips.

“What's this?”

“Your messages.”

“I’ve been gone for twenty minutes.”

“You're a popular guy these days.”

Tyler walked into his office, flipping through the messages. The first three were from various news agencies. He wouldn’t return those calls. Others were from various department heads, following up on department requests. The final message was from Ed Grayson. He grunted with disgust. It was about time his outside counsel got back to him on -

“We need to talk.”

Tyler looked up to see three members of his legal team standing in his office. They looked decidedly unhappy. Tyler had a good idea why they were here.

“I didn’t call a meeting,” he said neutrally.

“What the hell are you doing?” Ted Bucholtz shot back. After Dusty, Bucholtz was the most senior member of the team. Thin blond hair and a thin face to match, his cheeks were pink with indignation. He was a forty-two year old attorney who had spent the better part of his career working from the law library. He had a sharp legal mind, coupled with a generally miserable personality.

“Good afternoon to you, too,” Tyler replied mildly, moving behind his desk and setting down his briefcase. He pulled off his jacket and set it over the back of his chair. Then he took a moment to look at each person in turn. He spread his hands. “Is there a problem, people?”

“Yeah,” Bucholtz snapped. “It’s about that email you just sent. Why are we being pulled from the internal investigation? We’ve been on this for days, and now you’re taking over the whole thing yourself?”

“That’s right.”

“We’ve found nothing, Samson. That’s a
good
thing, you know.”

“Is it?”

“I would think so. We need to discuss strategy, Samson. You can’t keep everyone in the dark about what’s going on.”

“If you have questions about our strategy, talk to Dusty. I briefed him this morning on what we are doing going forward.”

“I’m not talking to Dusty. I’m talking to you. How can you cut us out of everything like this?”

Tyler felt his anger rise at Bucholtz’s paternal tone, but he managed to reply in a steady voice. He leaned forward. “Like I said, Ted, take it up with Dusty.”

Denise Jenison pressed further. “Have we opened a dialogue with the Justice Department?”

Tyler smiled faintly as he settled back into his chair. “I’m working on that.”

Damon Geller chimed in. He was a short, squat man in his late twenties with a short red beard and thick, rimless glasses. “Should we take that as a ‘no’?” he asked. “Is it ‘no, we’re working a dialogue’ or ‘no, we haven’t started talking to them yet’?”

“What’s your point?” Tyler asked.

“My point is that you are taking on too much of this yourself. No one knows what the end game is. That’s going to get us in trouble.”

“Trouble?” Tyler’s temper finally snapped. Maybe it was in the tone of Geller’s voice, or maybe it the fact that he just had enough of his decisions and motives questioned. Either way, he was ending this little uprising. “You want to talk about trouble? How many of you have had your apartment set on fire, been sent death threats and had an attempt on your life - all in twenty-four hours? I think I'm handling serious trouble pretty damn well.”

That stopped them. To their credit, they managed to hold Tyler’s eyes as he glared at each of them in turn. They were all anxious, tired, and they wanted answers. He couldn’t blame them for being frustrated, but with everything happening so fast, he barely had time himself to figure out what was going on, let alone keep everyone else in the loop.

“Coming through. Look out!”

Cindy staggered into the office, carrying half a dozen binders. The others moved aside as she marched across the room and unceremoniously dropped the load onto Tyler’s desk.

“These are the last of the hard copies you wanted,” she announced, raising her hands.

Tyler gave his assistant a grim smile. Her timing had been perfect. He didn’t know whether she’d interrupted the situation on purpose, or whether it was just plain luck. Either way, she’d shattered the moment and gave him the excuse he needed to get rid of everyone.

“Thank you all for your concern,” Tyler said loudly as he moved to his feet. “I appreciate your patience, people. We’ll meet later and I'll give you a full update. But for now, I want everyone out of my office!”

Whatever initiative the group held had vanished. Reluctantly, the attorneys turned and filed out of the room, grumbling among themselves.

When they were gone, Tyler slumped back in his seat and pinched the bridge of his nose. Were it not for Cindy's intervention, he would have lost his temper. He would have lost control. His team wanted and deserved answers. He could only keep them at a distance for so long. First, though, he needed time to really assess the situation. He reached out, opened the top folder on the pile, and idly glanced at the charts, tapping his pen on the arm of his chair.

A few moments later, he glanced up. Cindy was still standing before his desk, clutching a folder.

“What is it?” he asked, not bothering to look up.

“Are you all right?”

Tyler flipped through the pages. “No,” he grunted. “I need weekly acquisition cost breakdowns. You’ve given me monthly and quarterly reports.”

“I'm not talking about the reports, Samson.”

Tyler cut her off with a quick wave of his hand. “Don't worry about it. I’ll find them myself.”

Ignoring the obvious dismissal, Cindy narrowed her eyes. She did not speak up often, but when she did, it usually served to set her boss back on track.

“You’ve got a whole legal department put on hold, and here you sit doing all the work yourself. What’s going on, Samson?”

For an instant, anger again flashed across Tyler’s face. “Don’t even -” he started, before stopping to consider his words. “Cindy, your job is to assist me. If you have a problem doing that today, then just leave. Go home and stop bothering me.”

She stared at him. In over two years of working for him, he had never spoken to her like that. “You’re tired,” she concluded. “And you’re stressed. You should get some sleep.” With that, she turned and headed out the door.

Tyler lowered his eyes. “Sorry,” he muttered. “You’re right. I am tired.”

She raised her hand as she left. “Call if you need me.”

Moments later, Dustin O’Dell walked through the open door. He lumbered over to the desk with a mixed look on his face.

“And what have I done to piss
you
off today?” Tyler asked, glancing up.

“Nothing at all,” Dusty replied as he dropped his bulk into the empty chair. “So now we’re foot-dragging the internal investigation. You want to talk about it?”

“Nope.”

“Word is out that the New York Stock Exchange is considering taking action to censure us.”

Tyler didn’t look up. “Wonderful. Put Ted on it. He needs something to do.”

Dusty leaned back his chair, threw his arms back, and clasped his hands behind his neck. “Hey, do you remember the first time we met?”

Tyler glanced up with a frown. Then he looked back down at his papers.

Dusty continued, unperturbed. “It was in the law library, right after our first contracts lecture. A bunch of us 1Ls were talking about that first day of classes, whether we had already done our readings, and what we thought the professors were going to be like. I remember you telling the group that you had already finished the semester’s curriculum.”