Randolph grimaced. “Into the ground.”
“You need capital. I’m offering—”
“Sai, we both know that if I let you buy me out, within a year I’ll be out on the street, no matter how reluctant you’d be to can me. A company like Astro can’t have two masters. You know that, and I know you know it.”
Yamagata’s smile turned slightly down. “You are probably right,” he admitted. “But you must do something, Dan. Wasn’t it one of your own presidents who said that when the going gets tough, the tough get going?”
“Yeah, to where the going’s easier,” Randolph muttered.
Yamagata shook his head. “You have great assets, Daniel. The power satellite is nearly finished, isn’t it? That could be worth several billions by itself.”
“If it works.”
“You know it will work. The Yamagata demonstration model works, doesn’t it?”
Randolph nodded reluctantly. He had helped to build the Japanese power satellite, working as an employee of Yamagata. Then he had used the demonstration satellite’s success to win backers for his own start-up company, Astro Manufacturing Corporation. Yamagata had been angered, but as soon as he heard about the accident he had flown in from Tokyo. To offer his help, he told Randolph. To scoop up the competition at a distressed price, Dan thought.
“Your company wouldn’t be the first to encounter difficulties because its founder was too optimistic, too much in love with his own dreams.”
“Dreams? I don’t have any dreams. I’m a hard-headed businessman,” Randolph growled. “Not a good businessman, maybe, but I’m no starry-eyed dreamer.”
Yamagata looked at this American whom he had known for almost ten years. “Aren’t you?” he asked.
“No,” Dan snapped. “The spaceplane is an important part of the picture. If we don’t have cheap and reliable access to orbit, the power satellite isn’t much more than a big, fat, white elephant in the sky.”
“White elephant?” Yamagata looked puzzled for a moment, but before Randolph could explain, he said, “Ah, yes, a useless extravagance”
“You’ve got it, Sai.”
“So you intend to continue with the spaceplane?”
“If I can.”
Yamagata hesitated a heartbeat, then said, “I can provide you with enough capital to last for another three years, even at your current level of losses.”
“No thanks, Sai. I’ll be double-dipped in sheep shit before I let you or anybody else get their hands on my company.”
With a theatrical sigh, Yamagata said, “You are a stubborn man, Daniel.”
Randolph touched his crooked nose. “You noticed that?”
The office door swung open and Randolph’s executive assistant stuck her head in.
She started to say, “Joe Tenny’s here. Mrs. Aarons’s funeral is set for—”
Tenny barreled past her, a short, stocky, scowling man in an open-neck shirt and a tight-fitting, silver-gray blazer over a pair of new blue jeans. “Time to get to Hannah’s funeral, boss,” he said, in his abrupt, no-nonsense manner. “I’ll drive.”
Khartoum, Sudan
Asim al-Bashir sat calmly with his hands folded over his middle as the others around the table gleefully congratulated themselves. Fools! he thought. But he kept a carefully noncommittal expression on his round, dark-bearded face.
They called themselves The Nine. No poetic names for them, no declarations of bravery or daring. Merely The Nine. They worked in secret, planned in secret, even celebrated their victories in secret.
Here in this squalid hotel conference room that smelled of pungent cinnamon and rancid cooking oil from the kitchen down the hall, most of the others wore their tribal robes, including their Sudanese host, who sat at the end of the table muffled in a white djellaba and turban. Here in the crumbling capital city of backwater Sudan they were comfortably safe from the prying eyes and hired assassins of the West. At least, they thought so. Al-Bashir was dressed in a Western business suit, although he disdained to wear a tie.
“We have stopped the American,” said the tall, bearded Saudi, his eyes glittering happily. “His dreams are smashed into as many pieces as his so-called spaceplane.”
“But they don’t realize that we are responsible for the crash,” said the deeply black Sudanese. “They believe it was an accident.”
“So much the better,” the Saudi replied. “Let the unbelievers think so. We have no desire to draw attention to ourselves.”
The others murmured agreement.
The Iraqi exile, once a general and still dressing in an olive-green military uniform, was the nominal chairman of this group. They met rarely, furtively. It was not wise for all of them to be together for very long. Despite all their precautions, despite all their successes, the Yankees and their lapdogs still had a powerful arsenal to use against them.
“The purpose of this meeting,” the general said, his deep, rich voice loud enough to quiet the others around the table, “is to decide where to strike next.”
“Randolph is done,” said the Egyptian, who had masterminded the sabotage of the spaceplane. “Astro Manufacturing Corporation will be in receivership within three months. Perhaps sooner.”
Al-Bashir raised a hand in protest. “We may be congratulating ourselves too soon.”
“What do you mean?” the Saudi demanded, his lean, hawk-nosed face darkening with displeasure.
“Randolph is a resourceful man,” said al-Bashir.
“What of it? His project is crippled now,” the Egyptian countered, his round bald head slightly sheened with perspiration despite the fans that turned lazily overhead. “Randolph is finished, I tell you.”
“Perhaps,” al-Bashir conceded mildly.
The general, sitting up at the head of the table, asked with narrowed eyes, “What is troubling you, my brother?”
My brother? al-Bashir thought disdainfully. These zealots and religious fanatics are no brothers of mine. Yet he kept his contempt hidden. I must convince these maniacs of the seriousness of the situation, he told himself.
He pushed his chair back and got to his feet. All eyes were on him, the room was completely silent now.
“As I said, Randolph is a resourceful man. And his Astro Corporation still possesses the power satellite, up in orbit. It is almost completed.”
“But without the spaceplane his project can’t possibly succeed,” the Egyptian countered. “It will be too expensive to service the satellite, to send crews up to repair and maintain it. He nearly went bankrupt merely assembling it in space with ordinary rockets”
“True, the spaceplane is the key to operating the power satellite profitably,” al-Bashir admitted. “But the satellite itself is worth several billion dollars, is it not? That is a considerable bargaining chip for a man with Randolph’s talents of persuasion.”
“Then we’ll blow it up,” said the Saudi, slapping the tabletop with one long-fingered hand. “That will finish him for good and all.”
“That will finish us,” al-Bashir snapped.
The others stared at him, almost openly hostile.
“Let me point out that each of our peoples’ victories against America has come at a very high price. September eleventh was followed by the destruction of the Taliban in Afghanistan. Saddam Hussein’s intransigence led to the invasion and humiliation of Iraq. Even our greatest victory, the Day of the Bridges, has brought nothing but devastation and the Americans’ permanent ‘protection’ of the Persian Gulf oil fields.”
“They have not occupied Iran’s fields!” the mullah snapped.
“Nor Arabia’s,” added the Saudi.
“That will come,” al-Bashir warned, “if we strike openly again.”
“But they don’t know that we are responsible for the spaceplane’s failure,” the general pointed out. “The entire idea of such a plane has been discredited by the crash.”