In his penthouse aerie, Victor Anson stared at the blank screen of his telephone. They’re down, he repeated to himself. They made it to Japan and they’re all safe.
He nodded once and then commanded the phone’s voice-recognition system to call Gaetano Bartoni, in New York. It took some time to get a connection through; Anson got up from his desk and poured himself a glass of amontillado.
“Christ, Victor, it’s past midnight here!” Bartoni’s usually cultured tone was buried by burning indignation.
Sliding into his desk chair, Anson made a tight smile for the banker’s image on his phone screen. “Sorry, Guy, but this can’t wait.”
Bartoni had spent much of his adult life training himself to be polished and soft-spoken. His banking fortune may have started on street corners in Brooklyn, but for years now he had made his headquarters in midtown Manhattan. Cosmetic surgery had given him a reasonably straight nose and a smooth, tight face. His thick gray hair was always perfectly coiffed. But now, roused from his bed after midnight, his Brooklyn origins glared through his careful facade.
“All the friggin’ satellites are off the air, Wall Street’s in a panic, the President claims some gooks tried to nuke us, and you can’t wait until a decent hour to call me?”
“How are you fixed for investment capital?” Anson asked, knowing that it would cut through Bartoni’s ruffled emotions.
“Huh? Investment capital?”
“Our ABL-1 plane crash-landed in Japan less than an hour ago.” Before Bartoni could react, Anson went on. “
Bartoni’s expression went from anger to surprise to curiosity. “So that’s what the President was talkin’ about in ‘Frisco?”
“It was indeed. Anson Aerospace’s Airborne Laser system defended this country against a nuclear missile attack.”
Bartoni muttered, “Jeez.”
Anson continued. “The government is going to want to replace the crashed plane. And build new ones.”
“And you need investment capital for that,” said Bartoni.
With a shake of his head, Anson corrected, “No, the Missile Defense Agency will give us a contract for that, no problem.”
“Then what...?”
“Satellites!” Anson chirped. “There’s going to be an immense demand to replace all the satellites that have been knocked out. Now’s the time to invest in building satellites—and rocket boosters to launch them.”
“That’s already a crowded market, isn’t it?”
“Not now, Guy. The market’s suddenly wide open. It’s going to be raining soup! Let’s start getting as many buckets for ourselves as we can!”
