here?”
Earl took the first sip of tea and nearly spit it out. After a moment he said, “Considerin’ that you picked this out-of-the-way craphole-in-the-wall, it ain’t hard to figure out.” He dumped in three more spoonfuls of sugar.
“Let me spell it out for you, Earl. We’ve got the hottest defense product of the decade. In no time, we can paint all the Army and Marine vehicles in Iraq and Afghanistan and voila!-they’re all bombproof.”
“That’s certainly a good thing,” Earl mumbled, still more interested in his tea than the polymer.
“No, it’s a
“I know all about ’em,” Earl burst in, making it clear he’d already done his homework. He might not be overly fascinated by the qualities of the polymer, but he’d come well armed and wanted Bellweather to know it. He took another careful sip of tea, and appeared mildly satisfied. Then he put the cup down and faced Bellweather. “GT, General Techtonics, leads the pack. They got this weird armored vehicle with a triangular underside. Carries a squad of twelve men. A real nifty idea. Deflects all the blasts away from the troop compartment.”
“And what’s two?”
“That would be Orion Solutions.” Earl smiled. You’ve come to the right place, the smile said; ol’ Earl’s open for business and he’s got all the answers. Another sip of tea and he explained, “They build this wild-ass robot. Sensors on the front sniff out the bomb, it approaches, then blows itself up. Like mutual suicide. Know what they call it?” Bellweather shook his head, and the congressman chortled, “Jimmy Durante’s special.”
It wasn’t very funny, but they all laughed hilariously. “And those are the only two?” Bellweather asked.
A confident wink. “Only two that matter,” he answered.
“You’re sure? I need hard data. This is important, Earl.”
“A lot of other ideas are out there, none with any traction, though. These two are well into the appropriations stage. They’ve been tried and tested. The generals are thrilled with ’em.”
After a thoughtful pause, Bellweather asked, “Anything in the area of black programs we should worry about?”
“Nope, none that far along.”
“All right, good. Now how deep are these two into appropriations?”
“Well, GT is furthest along. Comes up for a vote next month.”
“Who’s pushing it?” Bellweather asked, much like a pro golfer asking his caddie about the lay of the green before he took his best putt.
Jack sat and watched them. He was obviously out of his depth, out of his milieu, out of his comfort zone, and doing nothing to mask his amazement at how the game was played. This was the chairman of the Armed Services Committee, after all. Here they all were in this filthy little wreck of a restaurant, huddled around a small, chipped linoleum table with Earl telling them everything they needed to know.
“That would be Drew Teller, from Michigan,” Earl explained, scratching an itch underneath a cuff. “Acts like he’s got a pocketful of GT stock, which might be he does.”
“That his motive?”
“Oh, hell, Teller’s got lots of incentive. Eighty percent of the vehicle will be built in his district. I’d guess about four thousand jobs at stake. He eases this through, he’s a shoo-in for reelection, for life.”
“I don’t know him. How powerful is he?”
“Straight answer? He’s not, at least not very. A big blowhard pretty boy.”
“But…?”
“But he spent the past year dolin’ out favors by the boatload, pandering to ever’body in reach. If you had a bill, he’d vote for it. Actually supported that nutty Rothman bill to ban Easter bunnies and Santa Clauses in department stores. Drove the Christian groups nuts. He’s runnin’ around now, callin’ in the chips.”
“Will it go through?”
A fast nod. “Appears so.”
“What about Orion?”
The old waiter reappeared, hobbling and creaking, bearing a large tray loaded with five orders of food. They stopped talking while he was in earshot. Given the situation, it paid to be cautious.
Earl snatched a beef roll off a plate before the old man could set it down. His thick fingers stuffed it between his lips and he chewed loudly and enthusiastically while the old man laid out the bowls and dishes, then waddled off.
After noisily sucking the grease off his fingers, Earl picked up where they’d left off. “Hell, you know them fellas.”
“Pretend I don’t.”
“Been stuffin’ lots a pockets lately. Bankrolled a few key elections, and they’re lending their corporate jets out like it’s the congressional air force.”
“Have they got the guns behind them?”
“Oh, probably about six or seven former senators and congressmen in their employ. The place is like a retirement home for former Hill staffers, so they know all the tricks. Hosted three big junkets this year. London, the Riviera, Bermuda.” Earl paused and awarded them a big wink. “Did Bermuda myself. Plenty of pretty women, enough champagne and caviar to sink a barge.” He shook his head, apparently reminiscing about the experience.
“How far along are they?”
“ ’Bout six months out, probably.”
“Six months,” Bellweather echoed, almost in disbelief. Six months! The boys from Orion would never know what hit them; two years spent perfecting this goofy little robot, and it was about to become an anachronism.
“Yeah,” Earl rattled on, filling in the now unnecessary details. “Seems their robot’s got a few awkward habits. They did this big test a few months back and invited ever’body. That crazy little robot apparently sniffed gunpowder, and began chasing one of the guards around, threatening to blow him up.”
Bellweather laughed. “And did the test have a happy ending?”
“Oh, he ran all over the place, screamin’ and hollerin’, for ’bout five minutes. It was real entertaining. After a while he got smart and dropped his piece, then, boom-the robot blew it to smithereens.”
After a few obligatory chuckles, the table grew quiet for a moment. Jack stared into his tea. Haggar was smiling. Bellweather was thinking, calculating the odds against him.
Earl looked expectant-with one hand he was snatching and gobbling more rolled-up delicacies from the dim sum plate, while with the other he was drumming his chubby fingers on the table, impatient to hear the deal.
“Focus on GT first,” Bellweather suggested. He popped something loud and crunchy in his mouth.
“Yeah, good call,” Earl seconded as though he’d thought of it himself.
“We’ll lay the groundwork for you.”
“That’s important,” Earl noted. “How?”
“This vehicle… what’s it called?”
“The GT 400.”
“Right. It’s… well… a great idea with fatal flaws,” Bellweather said, mentally forming the idea as he spoke. “Rushed through design and development, hurried through testing. The usual sad story. Haste makes waste.”
“That’s the ticket,” Earl said. “What flaws?”
“Well… uh, it’s top-heavy, for one thing.”
“It is?”
“Sure. A major design snafu, an all too common misstep by combat vehicle designers. They piled on so much armor it’s subject to rolling. Can’t keep its balance on curves. You know, unsafe at any speed.”
Getting on top of the idea, Earl said, “A rolling death trap.”
“Yeah, I like that. It’s catchy,” Bellweather said, beaming at his student. “To achieve a safe distance from underground explosions, they kept raising the chassis off the ground. Now the center of gravity is too high.”
Earl had his fist stuck deep in a bowl of fried shrimp, or something that resembled shrimp. He was fishing around, hunting for the perfect mouthful. “Like that Ford SUV,” he mumbled, his eyes glued to one particular shrimp. “Tippin’ over all the time.”
“I’ll hire a couple of experts to build the case, maybe expound on it a bit to the press.”
