Ben Bova - Able One

Harry saw a quartet of Air Police down there in white helmets and sidearms. Waiting for Monk, he figured.

“Will you be okay?”

It was Colonel Christopher, waiting last in line. “I can do it,” Harry said.

“I heard you had a bad back,” said the colonel. “Who told you that?”

In the shadows of the hatchway he could see a smile light her face. “I have my sources,” she said.

Taki Nakamura squealed as she jumped. Monk was next, big and lumbering. Now Harry stood at the lip of the hatch.

“Don’t make a big jump,” the colonel advised. “Make it easy on yourself.”

Unconsciously, Harry closed his eyes as he jumped. He felt his heels hit the inflated chute, then his rump. He expected a flare of pain but he felt only a tweak. He slid to the bottom on the rain-slicked chute and was grabbed by the Air Force noncoms, who helped him to his feet.

Squinting in the pelting rain, Harry saw that the Air Police were walking Monk off to a waiting Humvee. Turning, he watched Colonel Christopher slide down the chute. She got to her feet almost unaided.

“Nothing to it,” she said to Harry, grinning.

She’s really pretty, Harry thought. Kind of tiny, like a pixie. Really pretty.

The colonel turned to look back at the wreckage of ABL-1. Harry stepped up beside her, already soaked by the cold rain.

The plane was resting on its belly, slightly tilted. The left wing had ripped off and was resting several hundred yards down the runway, flames flickering from its root, where it had torn off from the fuselage. The pouring rain was pelting the fire, keeping it down as a dozen or so firefighters sprayed the whole wing with fire retardant.

ABL-1 ‘s fuselage looked to Harry like a stranded whale, resting on one side, its right wing angled defiantly against the thick gray clouds scudding above.

“We can salvage the COIL,” Harry said.

The colonel looked up at him. “They’ll build a new plane. More than one.”

“Damned right.”

“Your back okay?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

She gripped his arm lightly. “It’s been a helluva day. There’s an interrogation team waiting to debrief us.”

Harry thought about Monk and nodded.

One of the noncoms came up to them and pointed to an unmarked minivan standing a dozen yards away. Taki, Angel, and Wally Rosenberg were getting into it, together with the Air Force crew members. “Your transportation, ma’am,” she said to the colonel.

Karen Christopher tugged at Harry’s arm. “Come on, buddy, our chariot awaits.”

He let her guide him toward the minivan.

“After the debriefing’s finished,” said Karen Christopher, “I’m taking you to the officers’ club and buying you a drink, Harry.”

He felt pleased. Very pleased. And flattered that this good-looking and very competent woman liked him. I’ll have to go through with the divorce, he said to himself. I’ve got to get on with my life and let Sylvia get on with hers.

With a final glance over his shoulder at what was left of ABL-1, Harry ducked into the minivan, ready to face whatever was waiting for him in the future.

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. “ After successfully shooting down a pair of North Korean missiles.”

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!”