Ben Bova - Able One

Harry felt silly in the powered wheelchair, but he had to admit that it was better than trying to walk. Sylvia had come to the hospital and stayed alongside him as he rolled down the hospital corridor, checked out at the admissions counter, and then wheeled himself outside and up to the SUV that Anson Aerospace had provided him for the trip home. The driver and one of the hospital’s orderlies helped Harry into the SUV’s right-hand seat with a minimum of agony and then stowed his wheelchair in the back.

Once home, Harry realized that the world looks a lot different when you’re confined to a wheelchair. The split-level house had only two sets of stairs and they were no more than six steps each, but to Harry they suddenly looked formidable. Carefully, with the SUV’s driver grasping his left arm and Sylvia his right, he got up from the chair. Then he stood there with his daughters staring wide-eyed at him while the driver carried the chair down the little flight as easily as if it weighed only a few ounces.

He walked down the steps like an arthritic old man, Sylvia and the driver holding him again, and settled into the chair once more.

“I’ll be okay now,” he said to the driver. “Thanks.”

The guy dipped his chin in acknowledgment, grinned at the two girls standing there, and left the house. Sylvia stood in front of him, looking him over with a disapproving scowl on her face. Harry nudged the chair’s control stick and wheeled past her, down the carpeted hallway.

As he turned into the bedroom, Sylvia said from behind him, “Not there. I set up the guest room for you.” Her voice sounded edgy. “The doctor said it’ll be better for you.”

Harry spun the chair around. Sylvia looked strained, almost frightened. He started to say something to her, but gave it up. Without another word he turned the chair around and rolled it to the guest room.

Sylvia and the girls fussed around him as he got out of the chair on his own and stretched out gratefully on the queen-sized bed of the guest room. His back throbbed and he felt the beginnings of a headache pinching at the back of his neck.

“You have everything you need right here,” Sylvia said from the doorway. “If you want anything, just holler.”

“You want some juice, Dad?” Denise asked, her eyes full of anxiety.

He made a smile for her. “I’m okay, honey. Thanks anyway.”

Vickie said, “We’ll be your nurses, Dad. We’ll take care of you.”

“Thanks,” he said, thinking that Sylvia would be happy to let them take care of him. Or anyone else. As long as she didn’t have to.

In two days Harry felt almost normal. His doctor came from the hospital to remove the body cast he’d been wrapped in and ordered Harry to make an appointment for an x-ray of his ribs the next week. Denise and Vickie looked in on him before rushing off to school and once again as soon as they got back. The rest of the time Harry spent in bed watching television or pecking at his laptop. Sylvia stayed out of the guest room.

It’s just as well, Harry thought. I sleep better alone. She doesn’t want me near her anyway.

It was then that he realized his marriage was over. Had been over for years. They’d just been going through 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 were in favor. But now… even our strongest supporters are wavering.”

“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?”