“Draw it for me.”
He did. …
According to Opal, creating a new cooling basin of adequate dimensions for Sunshine Industries’ nuclear-reactor testing program would have meant the sacrifice of a large land area adjacent to SD-1. Land in the area was at a premium because of its proximity to the Houston Ship Channel. Rather than condemn valuable land, Forte had drilled an underground conduit to the Texas basin, where he thought it wouldn’t be noticed. Except of course, Dr. Opal admitted, by someone of extraordinary perspicacity. Somebody like Dr. Opal.
Forte breathed a silent sigh of relief. So the nasty little man wasn’t a threat to the Texas project after all. National security was no longer at issue, since the Washington Protocols were as good as dead, but those four nuclear reactors aboard the Texas were something the NRC had best not learn about.
Forte tapped out a message on the kneehole speed key.
“I wish I had met you before you went to work for the NRC,” Forte said wistfully.
“Why?”
“Isn’t it obvious? You’re a fast thinker. Fast thinking is what makes my business go. You don’t think I built Sunshine Industries all by myself, do you? No, Indeed- this empire was built by smart, resourceful, imaginative men. About the only smart thing I did was recognize them and hire them.”
Dr. Izard T. Opal, who had come to the office with the intention of talking about hard cash, was startled into another train of thought.
“Well,” he said, choosing his words with care, “I am not, after all, married to the Nuclear Regulatory Commission. If ever the occasion arose that my special tal-”
The door opened, and an erect, distinguished gray-haired man came in.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Forte,” he apologized. “I didn’t realize you had company. Your appointment calender was clear.”
“Come on in, James,” Forte said, introducing his executive vice-president, James R. Rogette, to Opal. “What’s on your mind?”
“Oh, nothing that can’t wait,” he said, looking side-wise at Opal.
“Go ahead and talk. We were just shooting the breeze.”
“It’s-uh-rather sensitive.”
“Dr. Opal is a man who can keep secrets-isn’t that right, Doctor?” Forte said conspiratorially.
“Right.”
“Well . . . it’s about Stenco.”
“Stenco.” Forte grimaced.
“Yes. We’ve got troubles.”
“Stenco’s always got troubles,” Forte scoffed. “I can’t figure why. If you’d only hire and keep the right executives, it’d run like a clock. Great future, Stenco- space travel, nuclear development, broad-spectrum research.”
“This is different. Jackson Freed has just resigned.”
“Jack? I don’t believe it!”
“Effective immediately. Cleaned out his desk and took off. Pressure got to him. He said bleeding ulcers aren’t worth ten times what the president of the United States makes, let alone three times.”
“But-but-”
“Yes, I know. Who can replace him? Freed is a rare type-sharp brain, understanding of nuclear engineering, enough experience with government to handle bureaucracy, a young man with vigor and imagination, the kind of man who gets things done.”
“And ruthless,” Forte added. “Just what we needed to get rid of the deadwood. I guess we’ll have to go with Alcott now. He’s next in line.”
Rogette laughed. “Alcott’s a pussycat. You need a tiger.”
“Then Bascom?”
“Good administrator, but no imagination. Can’t risk it.”
“van Cleve, then. He’s got imagination.”
“Yes, but he has to call a meeting to decide whether to scratch his itching ass. I’m telling you, Mr. Forte, the cupboard’s bare.”
Forte sighed heavily.
“Then get your outside-recruitment people cracking. Meanwhile, let me sleep on it. Maybe I can shift somebody from one of my operating divisions. I’ll let you know when I’ve seen your list.”
After Rogette left, there was a long silence as Forte stared out the window, apparently in deep thought.
A discreet cough roused him from his reverie.
“Oh, excuse me, Dr. Opal,” he said, turning around in his chair.
“Maybe it won’t be such a hard job as you think.”
“What’s that?” Forte asked absently. “Oh, you mean the hot-water problem? No, I suppose it won’t. We’ll work out something.”
“No, no-the job.”
“The Stenco presidency? You’re a hundred-percent wrong. It’s probably the toughest slot of any in my forty-odd companies. A real man-killer.”
“I didn’t mean the job itself,” Opal said, his voice tightening. “I meant filling it.”
On Forte’s face, comprehension slowly dawned.
“Me,” Opal said. “The man Rogette described is me, isn’t it-young, smart, conversant with nuclear engineering, a man of action, experience with the government. Fits me like a glove.”
“Well, now, Dr. Opal-”
“Izzie.”
“Well, now, Izzie.” Forte repressed a shudder. “What we’re talking about is big league.”
“Put me in, coach. I’m ready. Besides, I’m wasted in this job-getting people in hot water. Get it-hot water?”
Forte produced a little gallows laughter.
“I can do things,” Opal said, his narrow-eyed expression conveying just the right amount of menace.
“That’s true,” Forte said nervously. He rubbed his finger along his lower lip. “But you don’t know what you’d be letting yourself in for. It’s a big job, a responsible job.”
“I eat responsibility for breakfast.”
“Risky, too. It’s a man-eater, a real meat-grinder.”
“A job’s no bigger than the man who fills it,” said Opal sententiously.
“Knowing you might get burned? You wouldn’t be the first.”
“It’s all settled, then,” said Opal briskly, before the old fool changed his mind.
“There’s a contract to be signed, of course,” Forte said. “In Sunshine Industries’ companies, the buck stops at the president’s desk. He’s the one who gets the pay and the kudos if all goes swimmingly. By the same token, he’s the one who drowns if things go wrong. I must warn you of that.”
But Dr. Izard T. Opal wasn’t listening.
Forty-five minutes later Opal signed the contract that made him new president and CEO of Satellite Technology and Extraterrestrial Nucleonics Company. Right up to the last minute, Forte several times seemed on the verge of second thoughts. Opal did not, therefore, read the contract with the deliberation he usually accorded such documents. His chief concern was the clause concerning the salary, which was beyond his wildest ambitions.
“Board approval is only a formality,” Forte said, after congratulating Opal on his new job. “I’ll have an extraordinary meeting convened tomorrow. You can take charge immediately afterward.”
“You won’t be sorry,” Opal assured him.
“I hope not.”
“In fact, Will, what you did today is the smartest thing you’ve done in years.”
“I hope so.”
4 JULY 1998
For days, the statehouse in Austin had been in a state of siege. None but legislators-not even clerks or coffee runners-were allowed inside the guarded doors. And once in, no lawmaker had been allowed to leave, for fear of premature disclosure of the seditious deliberations taking place in the chamber.
Sedition? Some called it revolution, and wanted no part of it. But they were distinctly in the minority, and took care to be inconspicuous, for their fellow representatives and senators were breathing fire.
The morning of American Independence Day found the legislators queuing up before the six wash basins in the men’s lounge to shave, or taking delivery of cardboard boxes of pastry and big insulated jugs of coffee passed through by the Rangers, or gossiping in the cloakroom while doing household chores. One distinguished member from the Panhandle, temporarily manning a broom handle, observed that today would be the day.
“Not necessarily,” his companion said, a lady who had so far forgotten her station as to be picking cigarette butts from a brass receptacle. “They’re still three days away.” She smoothed the sand with her hand. “I heard this morning over the radio they’re steaming slowly northward off Vera Cruz.”
“I wasn’t talking about Russia’s Seventeenth Fleet. I’m talking about us. If we don’t decide to act today, it’ll be too late to act at all.”
“But you’re sure we’ll act?” the lady needled. Her distinguished fellow sweeper had made a career of fence-sitting. It was rumored that even when the voting was secret, he sometimes cast a blank ballot.
“Little lady,” he intoned, brandishing his broom like a scimitar, “I speak not for the others, but as for me-”
She never learned the as-for-him, for at that moment the quorum-call bell shrilled, and the members hurried to their places, for Cherokee Tom Traynor was scheduled to address the House. His orotund delivery was worth a hearing anytime, especially by aspiring politicians seeking an effective oratorical style to emulate. Adding to his appeal today was his total ignorance of the past days’ deliberations by the House and Senate. Would he take the line of moderation, wherein lay political safety, or would he opt for one of the two riskier extreme positions-prostration before the Russians as demanded by President Wilson Wynn, or defiance?
Striding down the center aisle of the chamber, his grim face looking neither right nor left, Governor Traynor ascended the podium. He grasped the lectern in both meaty hands and glared the buzzing House into silence. Another minute passed as his eyes touched, and briefly held, those of every one of the lawmakers. He was calling the roll. He wanted to know who it was who today would decide the fate of Texas. He opened his mouth to speak.