Powersat

Washington, D.C.

An unmarked sedan carried Jane from Ronald Reagan National Airport to her apartment building off Dupont Circle, near Connecticut Avenue and Embassy Row.

Being a United States Senator has certain prerogatives. A member of that exclusive, one-hundred-member club can phone the director of Central Intelligence from her private plane on a Sunday evening and get the man to leave his dinner table to answer your call. A U.S. Senator can phone the director of the FBI and ask her to cooperate as fully as possible with the CIA in an investigation of the Astro Corporation’s spaceplane crash.

But as she dressed for her working day on Capitol Hill in her tastefully luxurious apartment, Jane realized how quiet the place was, how empty and lonely. Her swirling thoughts kept coming back to Dan, his vigor, his passion, his drive. It was never quiet around Dan, never predictable or routine. Even the thing that had driven them apart, his insane zeal for creating this power satellite, was magnificent, bigger than life. And now it’s brought us back together, at least for a moment.

It can’t be, Jane thought as she rode the empty elevator down to the garage where her car and driver waited for her, barely hearing the muted music whispering from the speaker in the ceiling. Dan and I simply can’t be together. I can’t hurt Morgan like that. It would destroy him if I asked for a divorce. It would ruin his chances for the White House.

It had all been planned so cleverly, so completely. Once Morgan had won the party’s nomination they would announce their marriage, even go through a formal ceremony. Tremendous publicity. And she would be at his side through the whole grueling campaign. Every minute. Every step of the way to the White House.

I couldn’t leave him once he’s president, Jane thought. No one’s divorced a president. Not even after he’s left office. As her sedan took her to the Senate Office Building, Jane smiled bleakly to herself. But if ever a First Lady does divorce a president, it would be over Dan Randolph.

Tell me what happened,” al-Bashir snapped, once Roberto pulled the limo away from the airport terminal.

Grudgingly, Roberto explained the fiasco with Kinsky and April.

“Randolph’s secretary?” al-Bashir asked. “She was there? She saw you?”

“Yeah,” Roberto said, glancing at the Arab’s round, brown face in his rearview mirror. “She’s a piece, man.”

Al-Bashir glared at him. “And you say the FBI was involved?”

“Some Chicano, big guy, he came in while they were questionin’ me. Talked to me in Spanish, big deal.”

The FBI, al-Bashir mused. This could be serious.

“And what of your contact, this man Kinsky?”

Roberto shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Dunno. From the looks of him, though, he’s runnin’ fast. Might be halfway to China by now.”

How typical of a cowardly Jew, al-Bashir thought. For several moments he remained silent, thinking swiftly while Roberto maneuvered the gleaming white limousine through the crowded freeway traffic.

I’ll have to get rid of this oaf, he told himself. I’ll get the Tricontinental personnel people to find a job for him back in California. Tricontinental has a rehabilitation program; they’ll be happy to add him to their list of good deeds. I can’t afford to have him near me; he’s too blunt an instrument for what needs to be done now. Besides, he thought, I can infiltrate Astro Corporation myself now, and Dan Randolph will welcome me with open arms. Perhaps his secretary will, too. The thought made al-Bashir smile happily.

“Are you ready to fly the oh-two bird?” Dan asked.

Gerry Adair turned toward him. Then he grinned. “Is the Pope Catholic?”

They were standing side by side in Hangar B, where Niles Muhamed was sternly directing his crew as they carefully—tenderly, Dan realized—hoisted the spaceplane off the flatbed that it had been tied to and deposited it safely on the hangar’s concrete floor. The air rang with Muhamed’s deep-throated shouts and warnings. He even drowned out the electrical whine of the overhead crane.

“You’re not rusty since the crash?”

“I’ve been in the simulator every day, Dan. I’m as ready as I can be.”

“Good,” Dan said, nodding. “Stay sharp.”

“When d’you think we can launch?”

Dan scratched his chin. “Couple weeks. Maybe sooner. The legal eagles are working on clearances from six hundred different double-damned government agencies.”

“Will we land in Venezuela again?”

Dan hesitated. “I don’t know yet. Maybe, maybe not.”

Adair started to reply, but Muhamed strode up to them and jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the spaceplane sitting now on its three landing wheels. The flatbed truck ground its gears and started out of the hangar with a roar and a stench of diesel fumes.

“Okay, flyboy, you said you wanted to check out the cockpit,” Muhamed said.

Adair nodded once and sprinted toward the spaceplane like a kid heading for his Christmas presents. Dan saw that the crew had rolled up a set of metal stairs.

“Don’t know why he’s gotta go sit in the cockpit,” Muhamed groused. “The bird ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Dan grinned at him. “He’s a pilot, Niles. He’d sleep in there if you let him. He’d take his meals in there.”

Muhamed shook his head. “Nobody’s gonna mess up my cockpit with crumbs and stuff.”

Dan laughed, thinking, Maybe I ought to put Niles in charge of security.

April was startled when she returned to her apartment. As she opened the front door she heard country and western music twanging from her radio. She knew she hadn’t left the radio on when she’d left in the morning, and even if she had she’d never leave it tuned to that wailing of losers.

Cautiously she edged the door halfway open, ready to run back to her car if Roberto or some stranger were in her apartment.

Kelly Eamons was sitting in the armchair, her head bent over the computer in her lap, her fingers pecking away.

Gusting out a sigh of relief, April stepped into the living room and shut the door.

Eamons looked up and smiled. “Hi! I’m back on your case. But don’t let anybody know about it.”