Shattered Legacy (9 page)

“He took it pretty well.” Tyler tilted his head. “Of course, it turned out that
you
had already broken the news to him.”

Ramona scowled. Then she turned and swept out of the office, nearly bumping into Dusty at the doorway. He watched her leave before he lumbered inside.

Tyler was back on his feet, gazing out the window, hands clasped behind his back, frowning in thought.

“Always a sweet lady,” Dusty observed.

“She's just doing her job,” Tyler replied.

“She wants to run the show when Sinclair steps down. She sees you as a threat.”

“I have no ambitions to run this company. I don't know the first thing about rockets and astronauts.”

Dusty slumped onto the couch and threw his arms back. “Still, you're the only person besides Ramona who can bend the old man's ear.” He chuckled to himself. “You know, between the two of you, it's like some sort of sibling rivalry…”

Tyler didn’t want to hear it. He threw a glance over his shoulder. “I want to clear up this mess. We’re starting our own internal investigation.”

“Really? I thought we would wait -”

Tyler snapped, “Why does everyone in this company insist on questioning my judgment?”

Dusty raised his hands. “Whoa! Hey, I’m on your side. I just thought that, you know, you might have consulted with us before going down this road.”

“Well, I didn’t, so deal with it. You and I need to put together a list of questions for the procurement staff. Denise should gather background material on the subjects and organize an interview schedule for tomorrow.”

“Sounds like we’re pulling another all-nighter.”

“Do you have other plans?”

Dusty shook his head and stood. “Not anymore. I’ll go inform the troops.”

CHAPTER TEN

“I'll see your two and raise you one.”

“Too rich for my blood.”

“I'd be braver if we weren't playing for cash,” said the third as he slapped down his cards and folded.

The forth, a large, bearded man, threw a dollar into the pile of bills and looked up. “What do you say, Tony? You in?”

Tony Kanavos regarded his playing cards with a neutral expression. His face was open and tanned. He looked somewhat older than his twenty-four years, though he was the youngest in the group by at least five years.

He glanced up at his coworkers in turn. Like the others sitting around the circle, he was wearing a white construction hat and dressed in a blue maintenance jumpsuit with Templar Enterprises insignias printed on the breast and back. Throughout the hand, Kanavos refused to look down at the pile of cash in the middle of the circle. He had lost the last two hands, and if he lost this one, he would have to sit out for the rest of the game. Worse than that, he would have no money for his midnight 'lunch'.

“All right,” he muttered. “I'll see you, and I'll raise you another buck.”

The group was sitting on scaffolding beside the TSO-2 orbiter's port side wing. Halogen lights from the ceiling of the Vehicle Assembly Building beamed down, throwing crisscrossing shadows through the supports above. Work progressed around them as technicians crawled over the orbiter like voracious ants. Down below, electric carts buzzed across the open floor. Sounds of large cranes and machinery echoed as larger pieces of equipment were transported from the loading docks.

Kanavos felt a cramp coming on and shifted his legs. During breaks, hidden in shadow, his maintenance team sometimes played a few hands of poker. It was something they had done for a few weeks now. Kanavos had a knack for the game, though occasionally he purposely threw a hand or two, just to keep the others from getting too discouraged.

“I’m in,” said the other man as he tossed another few bills on the pile. “And I'll raise you another two.”

Kanavos looked at his cards again, and then tossed the last of his cash on the pile. “I call. What have you got?”

The others watched as the bearded man laid down his cards. “Pair of fives,” he said, grimacing. He scratched his chin, waiting to see what Kanavos had.

“You were bluffing?” Kanavos asked incredulously. “On a pair of fives?”

“Yep.”

“Wow.”

“So, what do
you
have?”

With a triumphant grin, Kanavos tossed down three fours, followed with two kings.

“A full house.” The first man whistled softly. “How the hell do you do that, Tony?”

“I count cards,” he replied as he reached out for his winnings. “And I cheat as a last resort.”

“Cliff's heading this way,” the third man muttered. He was facing away from the group, watching out over the floor. The others tossed their cards at Kanavos, who quickly stuffed the deck into his pocket. As the others scattered up and down the nearest ladders, Kanavos dumped his winnings into his open toolkit, stood up, and set the small box on the smooth edge of the wing.

“Tony!”

Kanavos turned and squinted. Bright spotlights burned around an approaching silhouette. Heavy footsteps vibrated across the scaffolding.

“Tony,” the figure repeated.

Kanavos flashed a quick smile. “Cliff,” he said, casually flipping down the lid of his toolkit. “How's it going?”

Cliff Newlon, the shift manager for Kanavos's team, stepped into the light. He was a thin, wiry man whose face carried an expression that only ranged between annoyance and anger.

“What were you guys doing?” he demanded. He looked around with wide eyes, but all the other men had scattered.

“When?” Kanavos replied innocently.

“Just a minute ago.”

“We were taking a break.”

“There are designated break areas. You aren't allowed to take breaks on the floor.”

“We weren’t on the floor. We were up here, on the scaffolding.”

Newlon's scowl deepened. “I didn't mean the
floor
-floor. I meant that you can't take your breaks in the main assembly area. What were you doing up here, sitting in a circle?”

“What do you think we were doing?”

“You were playing cards again. Gambling.”

Kanavos paused for a beat, frowning. “Are you sure?”

“I saw you,” Newlon replied with growing exasperation. He pointed at the row of office windows on the far wall. “I was watching you. I had my binoculars.”

“Binoculars, huh?”

“Yes. Binoculars.”

“I mean, are you
sure
we were playing cards? How could you really tell?” He gestured with his arm. “You could make that out through all that scaffolding? For all you know, we could have been swapping recipes. Todd's mother makes a mean apple pie.”

Newlon blinked; the corners of his mouth did not as much as twitch. “Don't give me crap, Kanavos. I know what you were doing.”

Kanavos nodded appreciatively and clapped his foreman on the arm. “Next time we'll deal you in, Cliff. Bring singles.”

The shift manager did not smile back. “I got someone who wants to speak with you, smart guy.”

With a resigned sigh, Kanavos took off his helmet as Newlon marched back across the scaffolding.

“You wait right there,” Newlon called back. “Don't go anywhere. And get that safety helmet back on. You know the regs!”

Still grinning, Kanavos ran a hand through his dark hair and shook his head. He could explain away his wad of cash, but there was nowhere to hide his deck of playing cards. Upper management probably took a very dim view of gambling on company property. There was a good chance he could be suspended again, or even fired. Newlon held a personal grudge ever since the time Kanavos had tacked up a police mug shot from Newlon’s DUI arrest in the break room.

Who would have guessed that would have upset the man so much? The mug shot was over five years old. It
was
public record, after all.

Kanavos sighed again. It looked like his luck had finally run out.

***

With a white construction helmet firmly on his head, Noah Gettleman walked across the ground floor of the Vehicle Assembly Building, gazing at the twinkling lights above. Voices and machinery reminded him that the VAB was never quiet. These days, technical crews were either prepping the
Naiad
for a flight, or completing construction work on the second obiter. Though several speeding carts came close to hitting him, Gettleman ignored them and remained on the yellow-taped walkway.

Seeing an orbiter in flight was one thing, but seeing one up close was an entirely different experience. The sheer size of the vehicle always impressed him. The TSO-2 was a massive, sleek machine, looking more like a fighter jet than a spacecraft. The hull was completely smooth, almost glassy. Even up close, the panel seams were nearly invisible, providing additional protection against re-entry friction. However, the technology was more than shell-deep. Templar orbiters were some of the first machines to fully incorporate structural electronics technology. On-board sensors and circuitry were directly embedded into the carbon-fiber airframe. Combined with the onboard computer systems, the shell became a “smart” material that automatically monitored itself, helped point out mechanical problems to the inspection engineers, and reduced the vehicle's weight by several metric tons.

Unlike NASA, where shuttles were returned to the Kennedy Space Center's Orbiter Processing Facility for maintenance, and later moved to the separate Vehicle Assembly Building for flight preparation, those functions were both performed in Templar's VAB. Here, the orbiter was stored and maintained. Since all the work was done in one place, it helped with the vaunted (though yet to be performed) twenty-four hour turnaround between flights.

“Doctor Gettleman,” a voice called out. “Doctor Gettleman!”

Gettleman turned to see a shift manager approaching him with long strides. Before Gettleman could identify the man, he was already talking.

“Cliff Newlon, sir. I'm Tony Kanavos' supervisor. Thanks for coming out tonight.” Grinning, he reached out and pumped Gettleman's hand. “I've been trying to get someone to look into Kanavos' behavior for a while now. I’m surprised they got
you
involved.”

“Where is he?” Gettleman asked, looking around.

“He's around back,” Newlon said, still gripping his hand. “Listen, I want you to know that I just caught him playing cards on the wing not more than five minutes ago. Completely caught him in the act. Do you want me to call security?”

Gettleman regarded Newlon strangely. “I'm sure that won't be necessary. I'd just like to speak to the man.”

Newlon nodded attentively and released Gettleman’s hand. “Sure. Sure. He’s up on the scaffolding.”

“Thank you,” Gettleman said, pausing for a moment. “I'll handle it from here, Cliff. I'd also like to keep our meeting off the record. If this goes wrong, then no one will look bad, including you, as his manager.”

The other man frowned in confusion. “Oh, sure. Of course. Uh, this way.”

Gettleman followed Newlon as they looped around the orbiter's shadow and peeked through the dense scaffolding. From a basic engineering view, she was a strange bird. The observation windows along the fuselage seemed too small, and the wings looked too flat. The two made their way to the rear scaffolding that reached up to the massive exhaust jets. Newlon pointed up at the wing, where Kanavos was waiting on the third scaffolding level. He was now wearing his safety helmet.

Newlon had the good sense to leave without being ordered. But before he left, he looked up at Kanavos, grinned wolfishly, and drew his finger across his throat.

Gettleman waited until Newlon was gone before he called out, “Tony Kanavos?”

Kanavos gripped the metal railing with both hands and leaned forward. “That’s me. What can I do for you?”

“Can I climb up there?”

“Are you authorized?”

“I'd like to see the exhaust jets,” Gettleman shouted back. He tugged at the ID card clipped to his jacket pocket.

The tech raised his eyebrows, noting Gettleman's girth. “Are you going to need some help?”

Gettleman wriggled out of his jacket and slung it over a crossbar. He gripped the scaffolding ladder and looked up grimly. “I can make it.”

A full minute later, Gettleman was standing on the platform behind the port engine. He was panting, his hands gripped on his knees.

“You know,” Kanavos said with an amused smile, “I could have come down to talk to you.”

Gettleman loosened his tie. Then he turned to the exhaust ports. They were so deep that he could not see inside them for more than a few feet. He looked back at the technician. “You work on these systems. What do you do?”

“Just regular calibration maintenance.”

“Do you know who I am, Tony?”

“No.”

“I’m Doctor Noah Gettleman.”

The tech took a careful step back. It took him a moment before he snapped his fingers and said, “You're a flight manager.”

“Senior Flight Director.” Gettleman said nothing for a moment, listening to the sounds around them. He measured the younger man with an appraising eye. Tony Kanavos looked older than his file indicated, and he looked like a guy who could really raise hell. The main question for Gettleman was whether the man could be trusted.

The technician grimaced. “Am I in trouble?”

Now Gettleman looked amused. “You know, I went through every file of every person who works this shift. Your file was by far the most…colorful.”

“And you decided to make a personal visit?”

Gettleman’s smile faded. “Tony, can you tell me anything -” he gestured back toward the engine. “About these?”

“Not much,” the tech admitted. “I just prep the bird, which means I pretty much just follow the spec manuals.”

Gettleman nodded. “Do you know of any problems with the exhaust ports on the
Naiad
?”

Kanavos looked confused. “Like what?”

“Like this.” Gettleman pointed to the edge of the engine cowl, to what appeared to be dark carbon streaks that ran back to edge of the exhaust nozzle. “Are these marks normal?”

Kanavos tipped back his helmet and scratched his scalp. Both men fell silent as another technician made his way between them and moved on.

Gettleman continued in a softer voice. “What do you know about those marks?”