Powersat

Matagora Island, Texas

Claude Passeau had a quizzical look on his face as he walked with Dan along the stacks. Eight solid-propellant rockets lay on their sides in the big warehouse, each of them bigger than a blue whale, all of them painted gleaming white with Astro Corporation’s stylish logo emblazoned along their flanks.

“You seem to have worked some sort of minor miracle,” Passeau said.

Dan shook his head, his eyes focused on the crew of technicians who were carefully slipping a cradle around the farthest of the rockets in preparation for lifting it into a sling and carrying it to the next building. There, it would be stood upright and mated with the smaller upper stage that carried the electronic flight systems.

“Getting Lockheed Martin to build these boosters at such a low price?” Dan replied. “No miracle. Just competitive bidding. And mass production. Instead of asking them for one or two, I ordered a dozen. With an option for six dozen more.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it,” Passeau said.

Dan looked at the smaller man. The FAA administrator looked crisp and cool in a beige summerweight suit.

“Is this silk?” Dan asked, fingering the jacket collar.

“You’re avoiding the issue, Dan.”

“What issue?”

“The change in the weather.”

“Oh?”

With a bemused smile, Passeau said, “The prevailing wind from Washington has changed direction, my friend.”

“Has it?” Dan asked innocently.

“Decidedly. Instead of being furious at you for your unauthorized test flight, my superiors have instructed me to wrap up the crash investigation and give you a clean bill of health.”

That’s Jane’s doing, Dan thought. A U.S. senator can make a bureaucracy jump, especially when the bureaucracy’s budget is coming up on the Senate floor soon. But then he wondered, Has Garrison anything to do with this? He wants to buy me out, but a defunct Astro Corporation wouldn’t be any good to him. Or would it?

Genuinely puzzled, Dan asked, “What does a clean bill of health mean?”

Still smiling, Passeau said, “My final report will not mention the word ‘sabotage.’ That would be too epistemological. I am merely to conclude that the cause of the crash was specific to your oh-one aircraft and not due to any inherent flaw in its design or your operational procedures.”

“That’s what your final report’s going to say?”

“Yes. I thought you’d be pleased to hear it.”

“I am, Claude. Very pleased.” Yet Dan felt no elation, no surge of relief.

“Well, it’s the truth, isn’t it?” Passeau responded, his brows knitting slightly. “Your flight with the oh-two model proved it for everyone to see.”

“How soon will you finish your report? How soon can you take the wraps off and let me get back to normal business instead of going to Venezuela?”

Passeau held up a hand. “These things take a bit of time, you know. I can’t simply tell my people to wrap up their work and go home:”

“Why not?”

“Because government agencies don’t work that way, Dan. It would look terribly suspicious if we suddenly put out a report holding you blameless for the crash. We’d be accused of a whitewash.”

Planting his fists on his hips, Dan said, “But that’s what you’re going to do, isn’t it? You just told me that your final report will give us a clean bill of health.”

“In good time, Dan. In good time. We mustn’t rush it; that would look too…” Passeau fumbled for a word. “Too unseemly,” he finally said.

“Weeks? Months? Years? How long?”

“Oh, less than a year. Much less. A few months, most likely.”

“That’s the best you can do?”

“Under the circumstances, I should think you’d be overjoyed.”

Dan puffed out a sigh. “I am, Claude. I am. Thanks a whole bunch.”

Passeau shook his head and walked away, heading back to his office in the engineering building. Dan looked up at the overhead crane trundling by, then decided to stay in the warehouse and watch the crew wrestling the big booster into its transport sling. It was a lot easier to manhandle a giant firecracker than to fathom the ways of a government bureaucracy.

“You have a dinner invitation,” April told Dan when he returned to his office.”It’s on your screen.”

Sliding into his desk chair, Dan tapped his mouse and saw Asim al-Bashir’s neatly bearded face.

“Dan, I hope you can join me for dinner tomorrow evening, either here in Houston or down at your Matagorda Island. I have news that you will be very glad to hear.”

Everybody’s giving me good news today, Dan said to himself as he clicked on the REPLY icon.

“Mr. al-Bashir, I’ll be happy to have dinner with you tomorrow. Let’s make it in Houston; the restaurants are a lot better there. Let me know where and what time. Thanks.”

The restaurant turned out to be an establishment called Istanbul West. To Dan it looked like some Hollywood mogul’s idea of a Middle Eastern eatery: pointed archways with elaborate filigrees of traceries, waiters in pantaloons and velvet vests, colorful pillows strewn everywhere. At least the tables are normal height, Dan saw as the maitre d’ led him through the big, ornate dining room. Al-Bashir wasn’t there yet. Dan remembered that Arabs had a reputation for being loose about punctuality. He also realized that making your guest wait for you to arrive is part of a power trip. Al-Bashir had been precisely punctual the first time they’d met.

So Dan sat at the table. It was on the edge of what appeared to be a dance floor. And there was a small stage where a trio of musicians were unpacking their instruments: some sort of a guitar, a clarinet, and a set of drums. No amplifiers in sight. Dan felt grateful for that.

The menu had regular steaks and chops on one side, more exotic dishes with names that Dan didn’t recognize on the other. A waiter came up and, sure enough, he was wearing shoes with curled-up toes. Dan asked for an amontillado. The waiter expressed puzzlement in a down-home accent. Dan ordered a Jack Daniel’s with water. That, the waiter understood.

I wonder how long al-Bashir’s going to keep me waiting, Dan thought as he sipped at his drink and the three-piece combo warmed up.

Then the clarinetist announced that the first oriental dancer of the night was “Yasmin, a lovely Lebanese girl.”

She looked more like Texas than Lebanon to Dan: red-haired and billowy in a sequined push-up bra. Once she started dancing, Dan stopped worrying about when al-Bashir would show up.

He finally arrived after “Yasmin” finished her dance, to a raucous round of applause and some howls and hoots from the guys clustered at the bar.

“I’m terribly sorry to be so late,” al-Bashir said as he sat at the table. He didn’t look sorry to Dan; the man was smiling like a well-fed cat.

“No problem,” Dan said glibly. “I’ve been enjoying the show.”

“Ah yes, the dancers. They save the better ones for later in the evening.”

Al-Bashir seemed in no hurry to report his good news, so Dan asked him about the Middle Eastern side of the menu. He eventually followed the Tunisian’s suggestions and ordered shish kebab with couscous.

When their dinners arrived, Dan laughed. “The locals would call this barbecue.”

Al-Bashir smiled tightly. “The locals would never be able to appreciate the spices and sauces. They like their steaks half raw and their beer thin.”

Dan accepted that; he even halfway agreed with it

Through the dinner and into the honey-drenched dessert al-Bashir refrained from talking business. They watched the dancers, chatted about the food and the restaurant, and sipped spiced tea. Dan recognized the game al-Bashir was playing. Okay, he said to himself, you’re waiting for me to make the first move, to ask you what you have to tell me. But I can wait as long as you can, pal.

At last the band took a break. Al-Bashir dabbed his lips with his napkin, then leaned close enough for Dan to smell his cinnamon-scented cologne.

“I have good news for you.”

“So you said in your phone message,” Dan replied.

“I have managed to convince Garrison to accede to your wishes. Tricontinental will loan you the money you need, rather than buy your stock.”

Dan couldn’t hide his elation. “You will?”

“If that’s what you want.”

All his reservations gone, Dan grabbed al-Bashir’s hand and pumped it hard. “That’s what I want, all right. That’s exactly what I want.”

“Fine. That is what we will do.”

Suddenly at a loss, Dan stammered, “I… I don’t know how to thank you. I mean… we’ll be able to get the powersat running. We’ll be able to beam energy down to the ground.”

Smiling benignly, al-Bashir said, “I understand. You see, I want the power satellite to go into operation just as much as you do.”