Powersat

Marseille

“It’s working!” al-Bashir clapped his hands with a loud smack. “Look! Look!” He pointed to the TV screen.

Pandemonium had broken out at Arlington National Cemetery. People were falling to the ground by the dozens, by the hundreds. The TV cameras’ picture became grainy, splotched with interference.

“But the president is getting away,” said the Egyptian, standing beside al-Bashir.

With a grim smile, al-Bashir replied, “Let them bundle him into his limousine. The metal shell of the limo will serve as an oven very nicely.”

The Egyptian nodded, then turned back to the technicians at their laptops. One by one, he checked them and satisfied himself that the satellite was still beaming out power and still aimed at Arlington.

Al-Bashir was practically dancing across the basement floor. “In an hour, at most, the vice president will order their military to blow the powersat out of the sky.”

“And the evidence of our work will be destroyed,” said the Egyptian.

“Exactly,” said al-Bashir. “They will never know that this was a deliberate attack on them. They will think the satellite malfunctioned. This will kill the idea of solar power satellites forever!”

“A great victory,” the Egyptian admitted.

“Indeed.”

Al-Bashir headed for the door that led to the stairway.

“You’re not waiting to see what happens now?” the Egyptian asked.

“No need. It is written. Now I go to reap the fruits of victory.”

The Egyptian nodded, barely. He knew that al-Bashir had brought a woman with him.

“I will remain here,” he said to al-Bashir’s back. “I will monitor the situation until it ends.”

Al-Bashir waved a hand in acknowledgment, thinking, The man is an engineer through and through. He wants to make certain of every last detail.

The Egyptian, meanwhile, was thinking of a dictum he had heard from some American funnyman: It’s not over until it’s over.

Dan was racing across the broad surface of the powersat, flicking hand over hand along the cleats, heading for the control station. One thought burned in his mind, They’re trying to kill Jane. These sons of bitches are trying to kill Jane.

In his helmet earphones he heard Adair and the others of his crew calling to him, urging him to slow down, to be careful.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed, boss!” Adair warned.

The hell I am, Dan replied silently, puffing too hard to speak aloud.

He could see the two cosmonauts in their dirty orange suits making their way to the control station. The bastards had a head start, but Dan was catching up swiftly.

Then he heard one of his crew saying sternly, “You two are trespassing on private property! Identify yourselves immediately!”

Dan almost laughed. I didn’t realize we had a double-damned lawyer in the crew. The intruders did not respond. Probably their suit radios are on completely different frequencies from ours, he reasoned.

He knew what had happened, and with the clarity born of a massive adrenaline surge he understood exactly what the intruders were going to do. They had already concentrated the microwave beam being broadcast by the powersat and maneuvered its attitude thrusters so that the beam was pouring onto Washington. Now they were heading for the control station to wreck the controls and prevent Dan and his crew from turning off the power.

At Arlington National Cemetery hundreds were collapsing onto the grass while a squad of Secret Service agents huddled around the president beneath the heavy plastic canopy that stretched over the speakers’ platform.

Jane stared at Denny O’Brien’s prostrate form, his cell phone still grasped in his dead fingers.

“What’s happening?” Quill asked, his usual unflappable calm completely shattered. He looked frightened, dazed, as he hunched on his knees in the mass of terrified, whimpering VIPs.

“Get down!” said one of the Secret Service agents. “Somebody’s shooting out there!”

Jane remained on her feet and pulled her cell phone from her shoulder purse. Turning it on, she saw that she had received a call from Matagorda. She pecked at the recall button.

Harsh static hissed in her ear. Then a voice she didn’t recognize, high and tight with tension, answered, “Who is this?”

“Senator Thornton,” Jane replied.

“Thank god and all his saints,” said Lynn Van Buren. “I’ve been trying to reach you. The powersat’s gone wonky. It’s beaming microwaves at you. High intensity.”

“I’m with the president—”

“Is he safe?”

“So far. They’re going to take him—”

“Don’t move him!” Van Buren snapped. “If he’s protected from the microwaves where he is, don’t move him! For god’s sake, don’t put him in a limo or any other car. That’d be like sticking him in a microwave oven!”

Jane felt an ice-cool calm envelope her. Now that she knew what was happening, she knew what to do.

“Stay on the line. I’m going to give this phone to the head of the president’s security detail.”

The chief of the Secret Service bodyguards was also on his feet, an Uzi cocked in his right hand, scanning the crowd. He was saying into the pin mike at his lips, “I don’t see any shooters.”

Jane stood before him. “You know who I am?”

“Senator Thornton, yes.”

She shoved the phone at him. “There aren’t any shooters. We’re being baked by a microwave beam from the power satellite.”

“What?”

“Listen to what this woman has to say,” Jane said, thrusting the phone into his empty hand. “She’s from Astro Corporation, in Texas—the people who built the satellite.”

April felt her insides jump as al-Bashir came through the bedroom doorway. She stood tensed by the open French windows that led onto the flower-rimmed balcony.

“Still in the same dress?” he asked, looking slightly disappointed. “I thought you would have showered and changed by now.”

April had examined the clothes hanging in the closet. Nothing but slinky, sheer stuff. “I’m not a Playboy model,” she said.

Al-Bashir ignored her sarcasm. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I had business to attend to. Important business.”

“I’d like to go home, Mr. al-Bashir,” she said as firmly as she could manage.

His smile turned smug. “I don’t think that would be advisable under the circumstances.”

“I don’t know how you brought me here,” April said, feeling like a trapped animal. “I mean, I never agreed to come here with you.”

“Yet here you are.”

There was a light rap on the door. Al-Bashir opened it, and the Asian woman came in, dressed in a miniskirted skintight outfit, pushing a rolling cart covered with a damask tablecloth. It bore a dinner for two in covered dishes, an ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne, and two long-stemmed glasses.

In silence, the woman wheeled the cart to the middle of the room, then looked questioningly at al-Bashir.

“You may go,” he told her, “for now. I’ll call you when we’re ready for you.”

April felt icicles prickling along her spine.

“Look, Mr. al-Bashir—” she began.

“Call me Asim.”

“I didn’t ask to be brought here, and I’d like to go back home. Right now.”

Al-Bashir shook his head pityingly. “I don’t think you’d like to be back in that pig’s nest in Texas, April. It’s going to be very ugly there. In a few hours mobs will be tearing down Astro Corporation and looking for Dan Randolph’s blood.”

Her knees went weak. “What? What do you mean?”

“Several thousand Americans have been killed, including the president of the United States, very possibly. They were all killed by Dan Randolph’s power satellite.”

April sagged down onto the bed, speechless. Smiling contentedly, al-Bashir went to the champagne bottle and began undoing its cork.