Powersat

Marseille

The young Asian flight attendant still wore her tan uniform as she led April up the main stairway of the villa and showed her to a wide, airy bedroom. Feeling confused and scared, April asked her, “Where did Mr. al-Bashir go?”

They had driven together from the airport up to this hilltop villa, but al-Bashir had been on the phone almost every moment of the drive, speaking in French and sometimes in what April assumed was Arabic. The uniformed woman sat up front with the liveried chauffeur. Once the limousine had pulled up on the gravel-topped driveway, al-Bashir had smilingly helped April out of the car, then turned her over to the Asian woman.

Ignoring her question, the woman went to the French windows at the far end of the spacious bedroom and threw them open. April saw a sizeable balcony lined with large clay pots filled with thickly blooming red and pink geraniums and, beyond, the tranquil deep blue of the Mediterranean Sea.

“You will be very comfortable here,” said the Asian woman, smiling.

April looked around the room. Tile flooring. Heavy dark furniture. A four-poster king-sized bed.

“But I don’t have any clothes with me,” she said, almost pleading.

“Mr. al-Bashir has already seen to that,” the woman said. She strode to the closet and slid its doors open. April saw a long row of what looked like evening gowns. Or maybe they were nightgowns.

“Why don’t you take a nice shower and get into some fresh clothes? You’ll find makeup and toiletries in the lavatory.”

With a final smile, the Asian woman walked to the door and left the room, leaving April alone.

April slumped down on the bed and fought back an impulse to cry. Am I a guest here, she wondered, or a prisoner?

It had started to rain in Matagorda. Dan could hear the drops drumming heavily against the roof of the blockhouse. Inside, the launch crew were at their consoles, the quiet tension of the countdown starting to notch upward.

“It’s just a squall,” Dan said, peering at the weather radar display in the control center. “It’ll pass in half an hour or so.”

Lynn Van Buren tapped a red-lacquered fingernail against the screen. “There’s more coming in behind it.”

“So we’ll launch in between ’em,” said Dan.

The door from outside opened, allowing a gust of wet wind to blow through the blockhouse. Dan saw Gerry Adair come in, stooped against the wind, his yellow slicker glistening wet.

“Crew ready?” Dan asked.

Adair’s freckled face looked somber. “Max isn’t going.”

“What?”

“He said you can fire him, but he’s tiot going up today.”

Dan resisted the urged to slam a fist against the nearest console. “Double-damn it, he’s not going to have any family picnic in this weather!”

“I’ve been on the phone with him for the past twenty minutes, boss. He just won’t go. Says his wife’ll divorce him.”

“And rain makes applesauce,” Dan muttered.

“The rest of the crew is ready, pretty much,” said Adair.

“What do you mean, pretty much?”

With a hike of his pale eyebrows, Adair answered, “We don’t know what we’re going up there for, boss.”

“The double-damned power’s off!” Dan shouted. “You’re going up to find out what the hell’s wrong and fix it!”

“Without Max? He’s our structures man.”

“I’ll take his place.”

“You?” Adair and Van Buren said in unison.

“Don’t look so damned stunned,” Dan told them. Jabbing a finger at Adair, “I’ve put more hours in orbit than you have, kid.”

“Yeah, but boss—”

Dan wheeled on Van Buren. “You run the countdown like normal. I’m going to get suited up.”

Van Buren fingered her pearl strand nervously. “Chief, do you think that’s wise?”

“I won’t ask these guys to do anything I won’t do myself,” Dan said. Then he headed for the door. Adair scrambled to catch up with him.

Down in the basement of the hilltop villa, al-Bashir paced nervously along the row of technicians bent over their miscellany of computers. He accidentally kicked a crumpled can of soda; it clattered out of his way. The room looked like a pigpen. Al-Bashir wrinkled his nose in distaste; it smelled like a sty, too.

“How soon can we begin to move the satellite?” he asked the Egyptian.

“Bouchachi reports that they are nearly finished attaching the new antenna.”

“So?”

“Once it is attached they can begin beaming power at high intensity.”

Al-Bashir looked at his wristwatch. He had set it to Eastern Daylight Time, the time zone for Washington, D.C.

“The president will begin his speech in another hour.”

Perspiration sheened the Egyptian’s bald head. “They should be finished by then.”

“Can we begin to move the satellite now?”

“It would be better to wait until they are finished with the antenna.”

Al-Bashir frowned, stroked his beard impatiently, then said, “I want it moved now. I want that antenna aimed at Washington. Now.”

“But—”

“You have the proper coordinates.”

“Yes, but—”

“But what?” al-Bashir snapped.

“We can activate the attitude control thrusters through the relay satellite,” the Egyptian said, his eyes shifting nervously, “so that the antenna points at Washington.”

“Then do it.”

“But we can’t uplink communicate with our workers on the satellite. We only have a downlink from them.”

“The plan calls for our maintaining radio silence, except for sending the command codes to the attitude thrusters. What of it?”

“They might be hurt when the satellite begins to shift its position.”

“Hurt? How can they be hurt? Everything is weightless up there.”

“But not massless. Objects still have mass.”

Al-Bashir shook his head angrily. “Bah! An academic quibble.”

“It’s more than that,” the Egyptian insisted. “If we don’t warn them that the satellite will begin to shift its position before they are finished attaching the new antenna—”

“Are you afraid they’ll float off the satellite?”

“No, they’re attached by tethers.”

“Then start the maneuver now.”

“It’s wrong—”

Al-Bashir slapped him. Hard. Without his consciously deciding to, his hand flashed out and caught the Egyptian flush on his round, stubbled cheek. The crack made the technicians look up.

“I am in command here,” al-Bashir said, his voice cold with fury. “You will do as I say.” Looking at the staring technicians, he added, “All of you!”

The Egyptian stood speechless, the finger marks of al-Bashir’s hand white against his nut-brown cheek.

“Move the satellite to its proper position,” al-Bashir said. The Egyptian turned and nodded to one of the technicians, who began tapping quickly on his computer keyboard.