Powersat

Near-Earth Orbit

Williamson’s stomach still churned queasily and his head felt as if it were stuffed with snot-soaked tissues. He tried to keep perfectly still, strapped into the couch of the Soyuz spacecraft. Like three corpses wedged into a metal. bucket, he thought. The Russian said it would seem bigger once we got to zero gravity, but it still feels like a bloody coffin in here.

“You okay?” Nikolayev asked.

Before Williamson could think of a reply, Bouchachi groaned, “I believe I’m going to die.”

Nikolayev laughed. “No, you won’t die. You might want to, right now, but in few hours you’ll feel better. By time we make rendezvous you’ll be okay to get up and move around.”

Williamson realized he was hearing them through the headphones in his sealed helmet. The Russian had turned on the intercom system.

“Everything is fine,” Nikolayev assured them, pointing with a gloved hand to the curves on the display screen before them. “We are on track for rendezvous with transfer ship. In two hours, eighteen minutes we go to transfer ship waiting for us, then we ride out to powersat. Then I sit and wait for you while you go outside and fix satellite.”

No, Williamson countered silently. Once we reach the powersat I kill you, you stupid Russian bastard. If he hadn’t felt so sick, Williamson would have smiled.

“We should have hired a band,” Dan said to April as they stood at the base of the airstrip’s control tower, watching Scanwell’s private jet making its final approach. Wind’s picking up, he noted, watching the distant trees tossing. We’re going to have to turn on the powersat in the middle of a rainstorm.

April squinted up at the darkening clouds piling up in the sky and said nothing. Dan wondered if she were nervous, worried, or just tired. Probably all three, he decided. Al-Bashir stood at her other side, chatting quietly with the representative that NASA had sent for the occasion.

“A brass band would’ve been a nice touch,” Dan said to no one in particular. He was talking to cover his own nervousness, and he knew it. “We could’ve had them play ‘Hail to the Chief’ when Scanwell gets out of his plane.”

April said softly, “He isn’t president yet.”

Forcing a grin, Dan replied, “Well, he’s still governor of Texas. We could’ve played ‘The Eyes of Texas Are Upon You’ or something like that.”

That brought a smile to her lips. Dan felt better for it.

Eight TV trucks were lined up in the parking area, their cameras tracking Scanwell’s approaching jet. Dan turned the other way and saw the booster standing on the launchpad, with the spaceplane sitting atop it. Ready to go, he thought. Just like a Minuteman. I only hope we don’t need it.

The business jet touched down with a screech of tires and rolled to the apron where Dan and the others were waiting. News reporters surged toward the plane. Dan congratulated himself that none of the TV vans had been accosted by the eco-nut demonstrators; his little detour had worked.

The plane’s hatch swung open and Morgan Scanwell appeared at the top of the stairs, tall and rangy, smiling confidently, waving to the crowd—which was mostly news media people. Vicki Lee was among them, Dan saw, representing Aviation Week. He wondered if she planned to stay overnight and, if she did, what he would do about it.

Jane followed Scanwell down the plane’s stairs, looking splendid in a soft green-skirted suit. Regal, Dan thought. That’s the word for her. She should be running for president, he told himself. She’d be much better at it than he would.

Nacho Chavez looked decidedly unhappy, Eamons thought. Not angry, not frightened, just plain unhappy, miserable, like a little boy who got caught doing something naughty.

The regional director, on the other hand, looked outright furious. She sat behind her desk like an enraged gnome, anger radiating from her frowning, hard-eyed face.

A helluva way to spend a Sunday morning, Eamons had to admit

“You implanted a tracking beacon on her body?” the director growled.

“I did it,” Eamons said. “Agent Chavez didn’t know about it until after it was done.”

“You did the procedure yourself?”

“No, Ma’am. I requisitioned the electronic device from logistics and got a local surgeon to do the implantation last night. It’s really a simple procedure.”

“And you expect this office to pay for it?”

Chavez shifted in his chair and said, “For what it’s worth, I agree with Kelly’s initiative.”

“Initiative? Is that what we’re calling this?”

Hunching his heavy shoulders, Chavez pointed out, “The woman voluntarily accepted the implantation.”

“It’s the only way to keep track of her,” Eamons said with some urgency. “The suspect wants to take her out of the country and we need to keep track of her. For her own safety.”

“Out of the country? You mean they’re going to Mexico?”

Eamons shook her head and answered in a lowered voice, “No, Ma’am. France.”

“France!” the director exploded. “They’re going to France?”

“Marseille, apparently. They’re leaving tonight, according to my information.”

“On a private plane,” Chavez chimed in.

“We don’t have jurisdiction!” the director yelled. “What in the hell was going through your brain when you dreamed up all this bullshit?”

Eamons stiffened. “Ma’am, we have reason to believe that this man al-Bashir was involved in the sabotage of the Astro Corporation spacecraft and the murders of three Astro employees.”

“And now he’s going to Marseille,” Chavez added.

“And you’ll have this woman going with him. A civilian!” The director glared at them both. “For Christ’s sake, you could both be accused of promoting prostitution, you know that? If you don’t get her killed first.”

Chavez’s face reddened.

“And you still don’t have any real evidence about this so-called suspect of yours, do you?”

“He’s our man,” Eamons replied stubbornly. “I’m sure of it.”

The director snorted disdainfully. “Marseille,” she growled.

“I could phone her and tell her to cancel the trip,” Eamons said.

“We’ll have to get the satellite spooks to track her,” the director grumbled.

Eamons sat up straighter. “Nacho and I could fly to Marseille,” she suggested.

“Like hell you will,” the director said. “You’ve spent enough of my budget as it is.”

“Why is he going to Marseille?” Chavez wondered aloud.

The director glared at him for a moment, then said quietly, “Latest poop from Washington, the spooks have found some unusual electronic activity just outside Marseille. It was in Friday’s summary from Homeland Defense.”

“Electronic activity?”

“They don’t know what it is. They’re trying to home in on it, but it’s intermittent, comes and goes.”

Eamons said slowly, “Dan Randolph believed that his spaceplane crashed because somebody sent spurious electronic commands to it.”

With a disgusted sigh, the director said, “I’ll have to kick this upstairs to Washington.”

As they left the director’s office, Chavez whispered to Eamons, “Are you sure you want to let this woman fly out to Marseille with al-Bashir?”

“She wants to do it,” Eamons said.

“You could be putting her neck in a noose.”

“That’s why I had her implanted with the tracker.”

“Big help that’s going to be.”