Powersat

Washington, D.C.

Senator Thornton relaxed in her high-backed leather swivel chair and tried to keep from smiling.

“He actually did it, then?” she asked. “The flight test was a success?”

Sitting before her desk was an associate director of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration. Her lanternjawed angular face looked far from happy; her lean bony body was all uncomfortable angles. Her hair was dark brown, but with a reddish tinge that told Jane she was dyeing it. Two men sat flanking her. The older of them, from the Department of State, was dressed in a conservative dark blue suit and rep tie, his salt-and-pepper hair carefully styled, his rather bland face even more carefully expressionless. The younger man, who had a receding hairline, chubby pink cheeks, and wore a checkered sports jacket, was an analyst from the National Reconnaissance Office.

“He’s done it all right,” said the NRO analyst. “Our satellite imagery shows the spaceplane landed at the Caracas airport this morning. His people are already bringing up a mobile crane to haul it onto a flatbed trailer.”

Turning to the State Department representative, she asked, “And the government of Venezuela hasn’t protested?”

The man blinked slowly once, then answered, “Not a word from them. Apparently Randolph set up authorization to land at Caracas well beforehand.”

How like Dan! Jane thought. That’s why he wanted a contact in Venezuela. The sneaky sonofabitch. He runs rings around all of us.

The NASA woman spoke up. “I’ve checked with the FAA. They’re furious with him, but Randolph seems to have obtained all the permits he needed to launch from Matagorda Island.”

“So he’s perfectly within his rights?”

The three of them glanced at one another, then nodded. Glumly, Jane thought.

“I’m not on the space subcommittee,” Jane said to the NASA administrator, “so pardon me if this is a naïve question, but couldn’t this spaceplane replace your old space shuttle? Wouldn’t it be useful for carrying astronauts to and from the International Space Station?”

“It certainly would,” the woman replied. “We were working on a similar vehicle several years ago but the program got axed.”

“And yet Astro Corporation has one up and flying,” said Jane.

The NASA administrator’s square jaw went up a notch. “They killed a pilot testing it.”

“Yes,” Jane conceded. “That’s true. Still, today’s test was completely successful, wasn’t it?”

The administrator understood Jane’s implication. “Senator, he doesn’t have to work within the government’s regulatory environment,” she said with some irritation. “I mean, NASA was forced to cooperate with the air force on our spaceplane project. Plus we’ve got a standing army of scientists, safety specialists, environmental protection people, even trade unions hanging onto us every step of the way. Not to mention congressional committees.”

“I didn’t mean to criticize,” Jane said mildly. “I merely meant that NASA could buy working vehicles from Astro Corporation.”

The administrator started to respond, took a breath, then said, “I suppose the agency could do so, if directed that way by Congress.”

Jane thought she sounded more than a little resentful. They don’t like having Congress tell them what to do. And they don’t like giving up their monopoly on the technology, even worse.

The NRO man said, “Senator, we’ve heard some rumors that Astro’s first flight might have failed because the plane was sabotaged.”

Jane’s brows went up. “I would think you’d know more about that than I would.”

With a deprecating little smile, NRO replied, “Now, Senator, you know that the National Reconnaissance Office isn’t allowed to run investigations into anything. That’s the FBI’s turf. Or CIA.”

“Of course.”

“But if the spaceplane was sabotaged, and if a foreign power or some terrorist group was involved…” He let the implication dangle.

Jane allowed herself a cool smile. “I think I should consult with the FBI about that, don’t you? Or the Department of Homeland Security?”

The NRO analyst nodded. “Yes, I suppose that’s what you should do.”

Sitting up straighter in her big chair, Jane said, “Thank you all very much. This has been very informative for me.”

They knew they were being dismissed. Murmuring their deep appreciation and perpetual willingness to be of assistance to her, the three of them left the senator’s office.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Jane pecked at her phone console and began to arrange a flight back home to Oklahoma. I’ve got to see Dan, she told herself. I’ve got to make certain that this flight doesn’t go to his head and he doesn’t go tearing off on the wrong track.

Kelly Eamons had arrived at the Calhoun County sheriff’s office near midnight, while the sheriff and four of his deputies were still questioning April, Kinsky, and Roberto.

At the station house they had put Roberto in one room, under guard, while they kept Kinsky and April in a separate little room. Kinsky, who had been absolutely silent every moment that Roberto had held them in the apartment, turned into a nonstop fountain of words once the police moved Roberto out of his sight.

April listened as Len repeated over and over his tawdry little tale: He needed extra money to pay his divorce lawyer. Roberto approached him at the motel bar one evening and offered to pay for information about what Astro Corporation was doing.

“Nothing terrible,” Kinsky insisted. “Just information on how the company was doing financially, what programs we were pushing, when we’d launch rockets, that sort of stuff.”

“Industrial espionage,” April had prompted.

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Kinsky gratefully. “Industrial espionage:”

“And when did you first meet him?” the sheriff asked.

Kinsky tried to determine the exact date, but the closest he could pin it down was “a couple months ago.”

“Before Pete Larsen was killed?” April asked him.

Kinsky froze, stared at her with horror in his eyes. “You don’t think…”

Nodding, April said, “And Joe Tenny, too.”

“Oh my god,” Kinsky groaned.

The sheriff looked very interested. “Well, was it before those deaths or afterward?”

“After,” Kinsky said immediately. “I’m sure it was after. I would’ve never had anything to do with him if I thought… I mean, I wouldn’t. I just wouldn’t.” He sank his head in his hands. April thought he was going to cry.

Eamons looked tired when she arrived, having driven halfway to Houston and back again. She asked to see April alone.

“Are you okay?” the FBI agent asked, once the sheriff had led Kinsky and his deputies out of the room.

“I’m all right,” April said. “I was sure scared, though, until the police showed up:”

“That was damned smart of you, turning on your cell phone. I couldn’t hear much, but it was enough for me to call the sheriff’s office and turn around and head back here.”

“You might have saved our lives.”

Agent Chavez arrived around two A.M. Kinsky was in the next room, still babbling his story to a pair of deputies and a stenographer. From what April could determine from the sheriff, Roberto had remained silent as a clam.

“Roberto Rodriguez. He’s got a rap sheet in California,” the sheriff told Chavez. “But he’s served his time and he’s clean now. There’s really nothing we can hold him on, except Kinsky’s claim that he broke into his apartment and held him and Miss Simmonds, here, against their will. Any two-cent lawyer’ll get him out on bail soon’s the county court opens in the morning.”

Chavez turned to April. “Did he break into the apartment?”

Glancing at Eamons, April nodded. “You can check the front door. The lock’s broken.”

The sheriff nodded.

“Let me talk to the man,” Chavez said to the sheriff. “Maybe he’ll say more in Spanish.”

“Hasn’t said diddly-squat in English. Hasn’t even asked for a lawyer.”

Before Chavez could leave the room, April said, “He was calling somebody overseas. He tried several times, and whoever he talked to said the person would call him back.”

The sheriff looked at Chavez. “We got his cell phone in my office, along with everything else in his pockets.”

They headed for the sheriff’s office, with April and Eamons trailing behind. The contents of Roberto’s pockets were strewn on the sheriff’s desk: a thin wad of folding money, some change, keys, a pack of tissues, a Swiss army knife. And the cell phone.

Sweeping the phone up from his desk, the sheriff asked the deputy sitting just outside his office, “Has this thing gone off?”

“Yes, sir, it surely did. ’Bout an hour ago.”

“You answered it?”

“Yes, sir, I surely did.”

“And?”

“Some foreign fella, sounded like. I asked him who he was and he hung up.”

The sheriff’s face flared into an angry red, but Chavez laid a hand on his shoulder. “We can trace it, I think.”

“An overseas call?”

Chavez said quietly, “I think so. With a little luck.”