Powersat

Hangar B

Muhamed made a rumbling sound deep in his throat as he pointed to the display screen. It showed an animated weather map. Peering over Muhamed’s shoulder, Dan saw the huge circular storm with its well-defined eye slightly off from its center. The sound was down to a whisper; Dan could hardly hear the meteorologist’s commentary over the howling of the wind outside and the drumming of the rain.

“Least we ain’t gonna get the worst of it,” Muhamed murmured.

“This is bad enough for me,” Dan said.

Passeau, standing behind Muhamed’s other shoulder, smiled wanly. “If you think this is bad you should have been in New Orleans for Hurricane Barbara. The streets were flooded up and over first-story windows. We had no electrical power for six days. Roofs blown off, power poles snapped like soda straws. My own car was totaled: flooded up to its roof and then a tree fell on it.”

“You’re not making me feel any better,” Dan said.

“We’ll be okay here,” Muhamed said flatly. “Walls are holdin’ up and the doors are faced away from the wind.”

Dan silently thanked the architects for that. Then he thought that perhaps Niles had decided which direction the doors should face, not the architects.

“There’s some water seeping in.” Passeau pointed toward the doors.

Muhamed headed there. Over his shoulder he said, “If you two want to make yourselves helpful, you can start totin’ sandbags.”

Dan had to laugh at the shocked look on Passeau’s face. “Come on, Claude,” he said. “Lift dat bale, tote dat sandbag.”

The storm was dying down, Kelly Eamons saw.

She had spent the long day in April’s apartment, worried about her but glad to be on the mainland and high enough to avoid any flooding from a storm surge. Except for the shrieking wind outside and her gnawing fear of the storm, it had been a boring time, with nothing much to do except watch television. Shortly before noon the electrical power went out, and Eamons lost even the doubtful solace of TV.

She tried reading. April had some surprisingly erudite books in the apartment’s one bookcase: histories of the Civil War and Reconstruction; biographies of Martin Luther King and Malcolm X; a few historical novels and several romances. Eamons sat in the doubtful light of the window and tried to lose herself in one of the novels. All she got out of it was a headache from eyestrain.

But it was getting brighter outside and the rain was definitely slackening. Then the lights came on and the TV blared to life. The digital clock on the DVD player blinked annoyingly. Eamons got out of her chair to fix it when her cell phone rang.

“Kelly, it’s April.”

“How’s it going out there?”

April said, “A couple of cracked windows but otherwise we’re okay. The Weather Channel says the storm’s moving inland and breaking up.”

Eamons nodded, then realized that April couldn’t see it. “We lost power here for a few hours but it just came back on.”

“Listen, Kelly,” April said, lowering her voice slightly. “I think I’ve found something.”

“What?”

“It might not be important, but you told me we should look for anybody who’s getting an unusual amount of money, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, as soon as you can get here, I want to tell you about him.”

“Who?”

Lowering her voice still further, April said, “Len Kinsky, the public relations director.”

Roberto had nothing to do. Al-Bashir had gone back to Africa or someplace, leaving Roberto with instructions to sit tight in Houston and pump his contacts inside Astro Corporation for information about Randolph’s plans to fly his backup spaceplane.

But the contacts had run dry. They all claimed that Randolph wasn’t telling anyone about his plans. Other than a quick trip to Venezuela several weeks ago, nobody seemed to know anything about what Randolph would do next. Not even his public relations guy had a clue. Or so he claimed.

Then came Hurricane Fernando, and everything was put on hold for a few days while they rode out the storm and cleaned up after it.

Now Roberto sat in his modest apartment and waited for one of his contacts to phone him. He hated to wait. I could be out cruisin’ downtown, he told himself. What good’s the money I’m makin’ if I gotta sit here like a punk in a holdin’ tank and wait for some damned pendejo to phone me? I shoulda given him my cell number. So he remained in the apartment, sitting in the reclining chair in front of the TV for hours on end, getting up only to trudge to the refrigerator for another can of beer, or to the bathroom to relieve himself. His anger smoldered, simmering hotter with each passing hour.

If I go out somebody’ll call and I’ll miss it. He won’t talk on the answering machine. So I gotta wait here like a fuckin’ moron.

Roberto was asleep in the recliner when the phone rang. Instantly awake, he grabbed it and growled, “Yeah?”

“You told me to call,” said the contact’s voice.

“So whatchoo got to tell me?”

“Nothing new.”

“Nuthin’? Whattaya mean nuthin’?”

“They got a booster back up on the launchpad and they’re going to put the spaceplane on it.”

“That’s somethin’, ain’t it?”

“It’s what they were going to do before the hurricane.”

“When they gonna launch it?”

The man’s voice hesitated. “This isn’t for a launch. They don’t have the government’s approval for a flight. They’re just checking out the connections, making sure the spaceplane and the booster fit together okay.”

“And then what?”

“They’ll take ’em down, I guess.”

“You get paid to do more’n guess, man.”

“Randolph’s keeping his cards close to his vest. Nobody knows what he’s planning to do next.”

“Somebody’s gotta know.”

“Well, yeah. The chief engineer must know. Van Buren. But she’s not talking to anybody.”

“She ain’t talkin’ to you, is what you mean.”

“She’s not talking to anybody! I’m telling you, nobody knows what’s coming up next. The whole fucking company could collapse. Randolph could declare bankruptcy and we’ll all be out on our asses.”

Roberto was not an engineer, nor a technician, not even a high school graduate. But he had the dogged capacity to pursue a course stubbornly and not be deterred by any excuses.

“Lissen to me,” he said slowly. “If that engineer knows what’s goin’ down, then he’s the one you gotta pump.”

“She.”

“He, she, whatever. You find out from her what Randolph’s gonna do.”

“She won’t talk to me about it. I’ve tried and she shuts up like a clam.”

Roberto thought that he could open up a clam, no problem. But he kept his patience and asked, “You mean there’s nobody else in the whole fuckin’ company knows what Randolph’s gonna do?”

A long hesitation. Then the man said, “Maybe his secretary. She makes all his appointments and stuff.”

“Lean on her.”

“I don’t know about that She—”

“You lean on her, man. Or I’ll come down there and do it for you.”

“Hey, you don’t have to do that.”

“Then you do your job.”

“I’m not getting paid enough for this.”

“You’re gettin’ paid plenty. Now earn it!” Roberto slammed the phone down. Fuckin’ jerkoff.

On Matagorda Island Len Kinsky heard the phone connection click dead. He felt cold and clammy and realized he was sweating. If only I can get April to come to New York with me, he thought, maybe I could get her to tell me what I need to know about Dan’s plans.

Of one thing Kinsky was certain. Mating the spaceplane to a booster was no test. Dan was planning to fly the bird. When, where, and how: those were the questions Kinsky needed to find answers for. He knew Roberto would not wait long, and the last thing he wanted was a visit from that Neanderthal.