Powersat

USS Harry S. Truman

As the massive aircraft carrier plowed across the Mediterranean Sea, her skipper and his flight operations officer huddled over a display table with the commander of the carrier’s attack squadron, their faces underlit by the light coming from the table’s electronic screen. It showed a satellite picture of the hilltop villa outside Marseille. The squadron commander was in his olive green flight suit; the other two officers in tropical tan uniforms.

“This comes from the SecDef himself,” the skipper was saying. “Ultra Top Secret. Only the three of us are in on it.”

“What about my GIB?” the squadron commander asked.

“Your weapons man sits in that back seat and does his job,” the flight operations officer said sternly. “He doesn’t have to know where the missile’s going.”

“As far as your guy in back is concerned, this is just a weapons test. Nothing more,” said the skipper. “You are not to fly within twenty miles of French airspace.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll keep her on the wavetops, under their radar.”

“You’ve got half an hour to get to the release point,” said the flight operations officer. “Maintain radio silence, but keep your receiver open in case there’s a recall order.”

“Satellite navigation all the way?” asked the squadron commander.

“That’s right. No contact with the ship once you’ve been launched,” the flight operations officer said.

“And the missile will follow satellite guidance once it’s launched?”

“It better.”

The three men straightened up. The squadron commander grinned tightly. “Holy Mother of God, the frogs are going to go apeshit over this.”

The skipper was not amused. “If we carry this off properly, the French will believe a group of terrorists were attacked by a rival group. At least, that’s the cover story our people will put out.”

“I hope it works,” the squadron commander said.

“You just do your job,” said the flight operations officer. “Let the politicians in Washington worry about the rest.”

“Yes, sir.” The squadron commander saluted smartly, then turned and started for his plane, already warmed up and in place on the carrier’s forward catapult.

As al-Bashir poured champagne into the two fluted glasses, April heard a timid knock on the bedroom door.

Looking annoyed, al-Bashir slammed the champagne bottle back into its bucket and strode to the door. He opened it only a crack. April glimpsed a round-faced, bald man out in the corridor. He looked upset. The two men spoke rapidly—in Arabic, April guessed.

Al-Bashir’s face was dark as he closed the door and turned back to April.

“It appears that your president escaped with his life,” he said, scowling. “But more than a thousand Americans have been killed. And the power satellite has been shut down completely.”

“You did this?” April asked, still sitting on the bed. She felt breathless, weak.

“Yes,” said al-Bashir. Then he smiled again. “With a little help from my friends, as your Beatles sang.”

“And Dan?”

“Randolph? He’ll be blamed for the disaster, of course. His power satellite will be cursed by everyone. No one will know that we engineered it.”

“You engineered all this?”

His smile widened. “Yes, I did. And you’re not returning to the United States. You’re going to Tunis, with me.”

“But I don’t want—”

“What you want is of no consequence. I promised myself a little reward when this operation with the satellite was finished, and you are my reward.”

He held out one of the glasses of champagne to her.

April stared at him for a long, wordless moment. He’s smiling, she thought. He’s just killed a thousand or so people and he’s smiling about it. He’s ruined Dan, destroyed the very idea of the powersat, and it makes him smile.

She got to her feet, surprised that she had the strength to stand without trembling. Without a word, she stepped toward al-Bashir and accepted the champagne.

“You’ll enjoy my home in Tunis. You’ll have every luxury, so long as you behave yourself properly.”

“Every luxury except freedom,” April murmured.

He made a disappointed cluck of his tongue. “You Americans always talk about freedom.”

“Yes, we do.”

“Enjoy life, lovely one. With me you will live far better than you ever could in miserable Texas.”

April sipped at the champagne, her mind whirling. I’m his prize for destroying Dan. I’m his reward. He’s captured me and I’ll have to do whatever he wants.

Al-Bashir put his glass down on the damask-covered cart and began uncovering the dishes. “Ah, you see? A steak dinner, just as you would have in Texas. All the comforts of home.”

The spaceplane was starting to rattle as Adair jinked it through the first of several high-altitude turns aimed at killing speed before it. could come in for a landing. At least the worst part of reentry is over, Dan thought. Everybody sat tight in their seats as the craft blazed back into the atmosphere, leaving a brilliant flaming meteor trail behind it.

Dan had to put his bubble helmet on again to use the radio link to Matagorda. Williamson still sat beside him, looking less surly than he had before Dan began promising him the best medical care in America and a whopping insurance policy for his family—in exchange for his telling the FBI what he knew.

Van Buren’s voice sounded close to tears. “Hundreds have been killed, Dan. Roasted alive. The TV’s full of it.”

“What about Senator Thornton?” he asked.

“I don’t know. They haven’t mentioned her name. The president’s okay, though.”

“Can you contact her by phone?”

“I talked with her when this all started, but then all the phone links went down,” Van Buren answered.

Double damn it to hell and back, Dan grumbled to himself. Jane must be okay. If they didn’t get the president they didn’t get the VIPs around him. She’s all right. They didn’t kill her. She’s okay.

He wished he were certain of that.