the motions, staying together for the kids’ sake. This accident broke the bubble.
But where do I go from here? Harry asked himself. How do I tell the girls that I’m leaving them? That their mother wants me to leave them?
“We’ve got a real problem, Victor.” General Scheib looked more worried than Anson had ever seen him before. The two men were sitting in the corner of Anson’s spacious office by the windows that looked out on the parking lot. Scheib was in uniform, although he had loosened up enough to take off his beribboned jacket and toss it on the sofa on the other side of the room. Anson had kept his suit jacket on, his tie precisely knotted at his collar.
It was early evening, the sun was setting, the parking lot was almost empty as a handful of late leavers straggled to their cars and drove home.
Anson had broken out his best scotch and told his secretary she could go home as soon as she set his phone to refer all incoming calls to the answering machine.
As nonchalantly as he could manage, Anson replied, “We’ve identified the cause of the accident and taken steps to make sure it won’t happen again.”
“I know,” Scheib said, avoiding Anson’s eyes. “But there’s a ton of pressure coming down on us. The head of the Missile Defense Agency has never believed in the laser; he calls it ‘Buck Rogers’ fantasy.’ That’s my boss; that’s what I’ve got to work with.”
Anson picked up his glass from the little table between them. He’d poured a generous dollop of scotch for the general; he himself was drinking dry amontillado.
“We’ve made the laser work. The testing program was only a couple of months behind schedule. So we’ll be five or six months behind; that’s no big deal.”
“The laser blew up, Victor.”
“Accidents happen.”
Scheib stared at him for several heartbeats. “Do you know what would happen if your laser blew up when it was flying in a 747? You’d have a dozen deaths on your hands. And my career would go down in flames with the plane.”
“We’ll fix it,” Anson said firmly. “We’ll make it work.”
Shaking his head ever so slightly, Scheib said, “We don’t have just the Air Force and the MDA to deal with here, Victor. There’s the White House, for god’s sake. The President’s cut missile defense again. And the committee people in Congress; that’s where the funding comes from.”
“They’re in favor of the airborne laser.”
“They
“But we’ve proved the concept,” Anson insisted, feeling more alarm than he wanted to show. “We’ve shown that the laser can destroy a target almost instantaneously. We’ve shown that we can pick up a missile’s signature and lock onto it.”
“In separate experiments.”
“But all we have to do is put them together. Systems integration. Anson Aerospace is good at systems integration.”
Scheib took a healthy gulp of his scotch. “There’s pressure coming from the top. There’s going to be a congressional investigation. We have to show results, Victor, or they’ll cancel the whole damned program.”
Deciding that it was counterproductive to argue with the man who was pushing for the airborne laser in Washington, Anson cut to the chase. “How much time do we have?”
The general toyed with his glass, then answered, “Four months. That’s when the congressional committee will open its investigation of the accident. You’ve got to have that laser working again in four months. Otherwise they’ll cut you off.”
“And then we start the integration work? Boeing’s on schedule with the plane, I take it.”
“Don’t worry about Boeing, Victor. Just get that damned laser working again. And give me enough ammunition to show those old farts that you’ve corrected the problem that caused the explosion.”
Anson nodded. Four months, he thought. Four months to make or break the program. Then he corrected himself. No, four months to make or break the company. If this airborne laser program goes down the tubes, Anson Aerospace goes with it. I’m going to have to push Levy and his people hard. And spend a lot on overtime.
Scheib looked bleak. He’s under as much strain as I am, Anson thought.
“Well,” he said with a forced smile. “At least we’ve got the weekend coming up. Are you staying here in California or heading right back to Washington?”
The young general tilted his head slightly. “I’d like to stay for the weekend…” He let his voice trail off.
Anson leaned back in his chair and said grandly, “Well, why don’t you stay at my place up at Big Sur? Beautiful spot. Looks right out on the ocean. I can have the company chopper take you and put you down right on the front lawn.”
Smiling, Scheib said, “That’d be great.”
“The caretaker won’t be there over the weekend. You’ll have the place completely to yourself.”
Scheib’s grin widened. “Maybe I’ll bring a friend along with me.”
“Do that,” Anson said as he got to his feet. “Have a nice restful weekend. Unwind. Enjoy yourself.”
The two men shook hands and Scheib left the office. Anson refilled his glass of sherry and went back to his desk. Maybe he’ll bring a friend along, Anson said to himself. He knew perfectly well who the friend was: a certain Major Karen Christopher, USAF, who was normally stationed at some Air Force base in Missouri, but just happened to be in California this week.
Major Christopher was up for promotion to light colonel, according to the report in Anson’s private computer files. She’ll make lieutenant colonel, he told himself. But first she’ll make the general. Scheib was a married man, but that hadn’t stopped him from becoming quite involved with the good-looking major.
Anson sat at his desk and told himself that he wasn’t spying on General Scheib for his own personal gain. It was for the good of the company, for the good of all the men and women who depended on him for their livelihoods. For the good of the nation, when you come right down to it. For the good of the entire free world!
“My God.” Sylvia gaped as they got out of their Camry. “It’s
Squinting up at the eight-story brick building, Harry said, “It’s not all his. He’s only got the top two floors.”
“Only!” Sylvia said with awe in her voice.
Harry had never been invited to Victor Anson’s home before. The invitation had been completely unexpected; it had arrived in the mail two days earlier, on stiff white embossed paper almost as thick as cardboard. RSVP. Sylvia had rushed out in a flurry of shopping. Harry thought she looked pretty good in the light yellow cocktail dress she’d bought; she ought to, after all the time she and the girls had spent fussing over the dress, the shoes, her makeup, her hair.
Harry’s hair was slicked down with a gel that Sylvia insisted he use. It made him feel like a pimp, but Sylvia screamed that he couldn’t go to Victor Anson’s party with his hair blowing every which way, like some nerdy creep. He hated the gel, but he used it.
Now the two of them stood at the front door of the condominium building while a parking valet drove their car down the bricked driveway to the parking lot in back. A doorman in a black uniform was standing by the glass double doors of the entryway. After checking the invitation Harry handed to him, the doorman led them every step of the way to the elevator, as if he was afraid Harry would steal one of the vases that held big bouquets of fresh flowers.
