Power Play (33 page)

Tomlinson looked rested and vigorous, beaming his killer smile at the audience. Leeds smiled, too, but to Jake his face looked puffy, baggy, faint rings beneath his eyes.

Perched on her stool while the candidates stood at their lecterns, the anchorwoman smoothed her skirt and went swiftly through the preliminaries and introductions.

“Mr. Tomlinson won the coin toss,” she announced smilingly, “so he will give his opening remarks first.”

Tomlinson gave her a megawatt smile, then turned a full circle to survey the audience.

“I want to thank you all for coming,” he began. “And I want to thank Senator Leeds for graciously agreeing to this meeting.”

Leeds dipped his chin and smiled his campaign poster smile back at his rival.

Tomlinson hesitated a heartbeat, then began, “You folks—you taxpayers and voters—have to make a choice in November. You must choose between change and progress, or the same old political system of the old-boys network that has failed to move our state forward.”

Looking directly at Leeds, Tomlinson went on, “I don’t want to see this state depending entirely on gambling and highway construction for its economy. I don’t want to see our citizens’ money being funneled to Las Vegas and god knows where else. I want us to move forward, to build new industries, create thousands of new jobs, reinvigorate our mining industry, and make this state the leader in bringing energy independence to America. I want us to break the chains that link our economy to organized crime.”

They got to their feet and cheered. Jake was astounded, then realized that Amy must have learned from the first debate and packed the planetarium with Tomlinson backers.

Leeds scowled darkly at Tomlinson when it was his turn to speak.

“My opponent paints a pretty picture,” he said, “but the truth is he has nothing to offer but fantasies and wishful thinking. He talks about energy and our coal mining industry. What he doesn’t tell you is that it will take ten years, maybe twenty or even more, before his beautiful dreams can become reality. Maybe they never will.”

Turning slowly as he spoke, Leeds told the audience, “New technology doesn’t just spring up because you rub a magic lamp. I’ve asked the best scientists in Washington, men and women who work at the National Science Foundation and the National Academy of Sciences, what they think about my opponent’s pipe dream. They tell me it won’t work, not for many, many years. Maybe never. Is that what we should be pinning our hopes on? Is that what we should be spending our hard-earned tax dollars on?”

Tomlinson’s rebuttal was simple. “The senator asks for advice from scientists who haven’t worked in a laboratory for twenty years or more. But right here in this state we have scientists who are making MHD work! They’re not sitting at desks and theorizing. They’re getting their hands dirty and producing megawatts of electrical power for us. They lit up the whole county of Lignite on the Fourth of July. You all saw that. They can light up this entire state, this entire nation, if we give them the backing they need.”

More cheers and applause.

Then, with an impish grin, Tomlinson added, “Remember the old adage: When a distinguished but elderly scientist says something is possible, he’s almost always right. When he says something is impossible, he’s almost always wrong.”

Everyone laughed. Except Leeds.

Turning toward the senator again, Tomlinson said, “I invite your Washington desk-bound science advisors to come here, come to Lignite, and see the future of this state, of this country, at work.”

And so it went. When it came time for questions from the audience only a half-dozen hands rose. Just like a classroom, Jake thought. Most of them are scared to stand out.

The blond moderator swiveled completely around, then selected a woman from the last row. She stood up, and Jake recognized her as one of the volunteers who had worked on the Fourth of July stunt at Lignite. One of Amy’s plants, he thought.

“This is for either one of the candidates,” she said, “or both of them, actually. There’s been some talk about the professor who headed the MHD program being murdered. Is there anything to this rumor?”

Tomlinson spoke up before Leeds could open his mouth. “You’re talking about Professor Arlan Sinclair. All we know for certain was that his wife had a gambling addiction, although the rumor claims she was a narcotics user, as well.”

Leeds jumped in. “Those are totally unfounded rumors. The police report concluded that Professor Sinclair committed suicide after killing his wife.”

“Yes, but why did he kill her?” Tomlinson asked. “And then himself—if he really did commit suicide.”

“There’s no reason to doubt the police report,” Leeds insisted.

“Yes, there is,” said Tomlinson. “Professor Sinclair was a noted and respected scientist. He was the head of the university’s MHD program. His death and his wife’s are certainly linked to gambling and perhaps to drugs. The case has the fingerprints of organized crime all over it.”

His face reddening, Senator Leeds said, “My opponent is trying to turn a domestic tragedy into a political smear against me.”

“Who said you’re linked to this?” Tomlinson said, looking innocent, almost surprised. “I haven’t.” Turning to the seated moderator, he asked, “Have I mentioned the senator’s name in connection with this tragedy?”

Instead of answering the loaded question, the moderator said, “Perhaps we should move on to another question.” And she pointed to a man on the other side of the planetarium. “I believe you had your hand up, sir.”

A middle-aged man rose slowly to his feet, potbellied and bald. “I was gonna ask about those killings, too. Professor Sinclair didn’t seem like the kinda guy who’d shoot his own wife. And then kill hisself? No way.”

Jake looked toward Amy. She was smiling like a cat who’d just feasted on several canaries. Even Tomlinson’s father, sitting beside her, looked grimly satisfied. Behind them, Rogers looked puzzled, Younger inscrutable. But Glynis was glowing with triumph.

Once again, Tomlinson was the first to react. “If there are flaws with the report of the local police in this matter, then the state prosecutor’s office should examine the case.”

“I totally agree,” Senator Leeds said.

“However,” Tomlinson went on, “if there’s any chance that the prosecutor’s office is tainted by organized crime, then perhaps the federal Department of Justice should look into this.”

Leeds’s face grew darker than ever. For a moment the planetarium was absolutely still. It seemed to Jake that the entire crowd was holding its breath.

Then the senator said, slowly, “I have already asked the FBI to investigate the circumstances of Professor Sinclair’s death.”

The crowd gasped, then broke into applause. Senator Leeds dipped his chin in acknowledgment.

Once the applause died down, Tomlinson said to the senator, “I congratulate you on your action. It’s the right thing to do.”

Looking relieved, the moderator said, “Let’s move on to another topic, shall we?”

The remainder of the Q-and-A period went fairly quietly, mostly questions about how the candidates intended to help the state’s employment situation. Tomlinson hammered on new industrial growth, spearheaded by MHD. Leeds emphasized construction and education.

The debate ended at last. The moderator thanked the two candidates and the audience. The audience applauded appreciatively, then everyone got up from their chairs and started filing toward the planetarium’s exits. Several campaign workers clustered around Senator Leeds, while Amy and the elder Tomlinson, together with Rogers, Glynis, and Younger, took turns shaking Tomlinson’s hand.

Jake noticed that Tomlinson eyed Glynis smilingly. She didn’t seem to notice, but Younger obviously bristled.

Standing beside Cardwell, watching the planetarium empty out, Jake said wearily, “Well, he let Leeds outmaneuver him again.”

“Why do you say that?” Cardwell asked, his gray eyes curious.

“The senator said he’s already put the FBI on the case.”

Cardwell smiled. “Do you believe that?”

“He can call them in tomorrow. Nobody’s going to check the date.”

With a patient shake of his head, Cardwell said, “I don’t think you understand, Jake.”

“Understand what?”

Ticking points off on his fingers, Cardwell explained, “First, your boy definitely linked Leeds to organized crime. And murder. Second, he forced Leeds to retreat on his criticism of MHD. Third—and most important—he’s put Leeds on the defensive.”

Jake blinked at his mentor. “You think so?”

“Definitely. Leeds has been badly hurt. Tomlinson’s going to win this election—barring some disaster.”

OCTOBER

TOPPING PLANT

The summer ended. While the election campaign heated up, cool winds swept down from the mountains. A mammoth rainstorm blew in from the west, soaking the state and swelling several rivers to flood stage. The town of Lignite was partially flooded for several days and operations at the big rig were temporarily halted because the roads were awash. Lignite’s sole working coal mine had to suspend operations until the waters receded.

Tomlinson continued his exhausting travels around the state, speaking at every town, appearing at every occasion. He officiated at local beauty pageants, spoke at meetings of Elks and Moose associations, got himself photographed at local Boys and Girls Club activities.

The two candidates crossed paths at the state fair, Senator Leeds delivering a speech at the fair’s opening, Tomlinson speaking on the closing day—to a noticeably larger crowd.

The fall semester started, and Jake had classes to teach. But he ran up to Lignite every week. Each time he visited the big rig Glynis was there, with Younger. Jake wondered if they were living together, but couldn’t work up the nerve to ask either one of them.

Another major rainstorm drenched the state, and locals began eyeing the gray skies and telling one another, “Next one’ll be snow.”

Exactly one month before election day, Tomlinson surged ahead of Senator Leeds in the polls. He moved ahead by only a couple of percentage points, well within the pollsters’ margin of error, but it was the first time he had taken the lead away from the senator.

“We’re going to win!” Amy beamed when Jake visited the downtown campaign headquarters. “I know it!”

Tomlinson’s father was less optimistic. “Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched,” he grumbled.

The FBI steadily refused to say anything about the Sinclair killings except to report, “The investigation is in progress.” But Amy kept Tomlinson’s publicity team driving hard on the links between gambling and organized crime—and by associating Senator Leeds with the state’s casinos they associated him with narcotics and murder.

Jake’s work on the NASA proposal had sunk out of sight. There isn’t any time for it, he told himself. The truth was that he’d lost interest in it. Despite himself, the political campaign was absorbing all his energies. He worked closely with Bob Rogers, wrote pop-science pieces for the newspapers and television news shows, coached Rogers when Bob had to be interviewed or give a talk about MHD to some civic or social group.

One afternoon, as the October weather turned almost wintry, Jake popped into Rogers’s office.

The physicist was poring over a huge blueprint that was draped over his desk, its corners drooping almost to the floor.

“What’s this?” Jake asked, walking around the desk to stand beside Rogers.

“Topping plant,” Rogers said. “I’m expecting—”

His phone buzzed. Rogers picked it up, nodded vigorously, and said, “Bring him right here, to my office.”

Jake raised his brows questioningly.

“Guy from the NAEU,” Rogers said.

“National…”

“The electric utilities gang. You know, O’Brien’s people.”

“What’s he here for?”

Rogers tapped the blueprint. “He wants to see the topping plant.”

Jake wondered what a topping plant might be, but before he could ask the office door opened and the department secretary ushered in a young, stocky fellow in a gray three-piece suit.

One of Francis X. O’Brien’s people, Jake said to himself. They must get group discounts at Brooks Brothers.

“Hello,” the young man said. “I’m Don Garza.”

To Jake, Garza looked like a newly graduated student who’d gone through college on an athletic scholarship. He was no taller than Jake himself, but his shoulders were wide and his body solid. He had a pleasant smile, bright teeth contrasting nicely with his olive complexion. Handsome kid, Jake thought. I wonder how smart he is.

Rogers came around the desk to shake hands with the kid. Turning, he introduced Jake. Then he led them both around his desk and the three of them looked down at the oversized blueprint.

Suddenly the smiling young man became all business, and quite knowledgeable.

“So what’s the temperature of the gas when it exits the MHD channel?” Garza asked.

“About four thousand Fahrenheit,” said Rogers.

Shaking his head, Garza muttered, “Way too hot for the turbines. You’ll melt their blades off.”

“No, no,” Rogers countered, tapping the blueprint. “The exhaust gas goes through the heat exchanger, here. The heat boils water for your steam turbines, and by the time the plasma leaves the heat exchanger it’s cool enough to run it through a set of gas turbines, here.”

“I see,” Garza muttered. “Very damned clever.”

“It’s like a meat processing factory,” said Rogers, grinning. “We use everything but the oink.”

Garza laughed, and Jake began to understand what Rogers had designed: a power-generating plant in which an MHD generator produces electricity, then feeds its still-hot exhaust gas to more conventional turbine systems that generate additional electrical power.

Pretty neat, Jake thought.

“How big can you make this system?” Garza asked, looking up from the blueprint.

Rogers waggled a hand. “Big as you want. The MHD generator gets more efficient with size.”

“A thousand megawatts, total?”

Nodding, Rogers said, “The MHD generator could produce half, and the turbines the rest of it.”