Shattered Legacy (2 page)

Tyler pursed his lips and glanced over at Denise. Her head hung low as she stared at her copy of the contract. Then he pushed his chair back and followed Lydell across the room.

Out of earshot of the others, the older man moved close and placed a fatherly hand on Tyler’s shoulder. Tyler glanced down at the hand, but said nothing. He stared out the window as Lydell spoke.

“Listen, son,” the older man whispered. “You’re a bright boy and a damned good negotiator, but there's no reason to kill this deal over a technicality. We can still make this happen. You know Wharton is one of the strongest -”

“No.”

“Then I have an alternate proposal for you -”

Tyler shrugged Lydell’s hand away. “Don’t waste your breath.”

Lydell broke into another smile, but impatience flashed in his eyes. His voice dropped even further as he lowered his arm and clasped his hands behind his back. “I suggest we go back to the table and sign the contract, Mr. Tyler. It would be best for both of us.”

Tyler turned his head to match Lydell’s hard gaze. “You need our two hundred million far more than we need an environmental time bomb.”

“The site’s not contaminated. We both know that.”

“Soil and air samples don’t mean much. If they did, there would be no reason to post a bond in the first place.”

Lydell leaned closer. “Fine. What if we found another financial institution? Would that -”

Tyler’s cell phone chirped. “Excuse me.” He backed a few paces and turned aside. He pulled the phone from his belt holster. “What is it?”

“There are people here to see you.”

“Not now, Cindy.”

“These people have
warrants
, Samson.”

Tyler glanced back. “This meeting is just about over,” he said loud enough for the others to hear. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

He hung up and slipped the phone back onto his belt. He returned to the table and began stuffing papers into his briefcase. “Say ‘Hi’ to the rest of gang at Bryce, Holloway. I'd say it was a pleasure working with you people, but it wasn’t.” He snapped his briefcase shut. Dusty and Denise followed him to the door.

“You - you’re not going anywhere!” Lydell stormed across the room and managed to block the exit. His face and neck were flushed, his jaw clenched tightly as he spoke through his perfect white teeth. “You can’t walk away from this! Six months! You can’t crater a two hundred million dollar deal over a goddamned
bond
issue!”

Tyler looked back at the table and shrugged. “Seems to me I just did.” Then he clapped the older man on the shoulder. “Count yourself lucky that I’m busy this week, because the next time your firm screws with my company, we're going to sue you. Then we're going to bury the client who put you up to the job. Then when we're done with that, Mr. Lydell, I'm
personally
going after your law license. Now get out of my way.”

***

Outside the conference room, the two attorneys fell into step behind Tyler.

“I can’t believe you killed that deal,” Dusty said through clenched teeth. “I thought you were gonna negotiate with them. Do you know how
screwed
we are now?”

“I did the right thing,” Tyler muttered as he picked up his pace.

“We talked about this. We were going to work through the bond problem. We were going to have our outside counsel look into forcing -”

“I decided to handle it differently.”

“I noticed.”

“By the way, nice job following my lead.”

“I try to keep up.”

“Denise,” Tyler snapped, breaking off the conversation. “Do you understand what just happened in there?”

The junior associate cleared her throat. “We just ended negotiations on a purchasing contract for some industrial property. The seller was attempting to circumvent an environmental bond requirement. Because they tried to trick us, we exercised our walk-right. We're free of the contract.”

Tyler threw her a glance. “Not really. Penraxis will probably sue us for breach of contract, though I doubt they will get far. The bottom line is that both sides spent a lot of time on this deal. Time that was ultimately wasted.”

“I know.” She fell back a step as they turned the corner.

“You were heading up our due diligence, Denise. How could you have missed the fact that Penraxis
owned
the very institution which was to underwrite its bond?”

She answered in a low voice, “We did find out what they were up to, Mr. Tyler.”

Tyler shook his head they stopped before the elevator banks. “No,
Dusty
found out what they were up to - and barely in time. What were you looking for when you investigated Wharton Financial?”

She hesitated. “Well, I examined Wharton’s financial status. They appeared to be well-funded…”

“But you never looked for a connection between the two?”

“Between the two companies?”

“Yes.”

“We checked, but there was…”

“Nothing obvious? Denise, you should have made the connection months ago.” He let his words sink in as he pressed the elevator down button. “If we had purchased that factory, and for some reason environmental litigation ever arose, Penraxis would have left us holding the bag.”

“It won’t happen again,” Denise assured him. “I’m sorry, guys. Really.”

She glanced over at Dusty, her expression pleading. His round face was flush, but all he could offer was a sympathetic shrug.

Tyler took a deep breath and released it. “I'm sorry, too, Denise. Your lack of attention in this matter was inexcusable.”

Her eyes widened. “Is that why you brought me to this meeting - to rub my nose in my mistake?”

Tyler's expression showed no sign of anger, only grim resignation. Dusty looked away.

“Are you firing me, Mr. Tyler?”

“Denise, your mistake could have cost us millions.”

Her hand went to her mouth. “Oh, God. You
are
firing me.”

Tyler lowered his head. “I considered that. I really did.” He paused as the metal doors slid open. “But right now we’re too busy to get a new person up to speed.”

The young attorney blinked as she watched the two men step into the elevator. As they turned to face her, she looked from one to the other, working her mouth, unable to find any words.

Tyler pressed the door button, and nodded farewell. “Go take a walk, Denise. Think about this. We’ll see you after lunch.”

The doors slid shut, leaving Denise Jenison to face her own distorted reflection - and the dawning realization that despite everything that had happened, she still had her job.

CHAPTER TWO

A continuous, twelve-foot high perimeter fence encircled the five square miles of desert property that comprised the Thomas Dorian Space Center. Squat buildings, their great size masked by the distance, sat shimmering in the New Mexico heat. At first look, the facility resembled a traditional airport complete with a runway, an aircraft hangar, and a rising octagonal control tower. Only on closer inspection did one realize that the runway was too long, that aboveground tubes connected every building, and that the hangar was actually a massive, climate-controlled Vehicle Assembly Building.

Six months ago, Templar Enterprises’ space orbiter completed its first successful test flight. The
Naiad
(whose name was selected as the result of an online contest) was now ready for its first official mission to ferry supplies to the International Space Station. The launch of the corporate-owned spacecraft was the most anticipated space mission of the year.

Cameras flashed along the row of bright lights and television cameras that filled the Building Seven media room. A colorful mission emblem logo hung from the curtained wall. Three astronauts were seated behind a long table on the stage. They were dressed in blue jumpsuits, sipping water, joking, and fielding questions from the large media audience.

Commander Roland McManus, a 42-year-old former U.S. Air Force captain and a veteran of three space flights, was getting the most attention. Lean and rugged looking, he had cropped brown hair, bright blue eyes, and a confident smile.

“I look forward to a successful mission,” he said, speaking into his table microphone. “I have a great team backing me up, so there are no worries there. Of course, the worst part of the mission will be the time spent away from my family. I don’t want to embarrass her, so I’ll ask you not to turn your cameras to the pretty blond woman standing near the back doors.” He raised his hand and grinned. “Hi, honey. I’ll be home before you know it.”

“How do you feel about filming a commercial in space?” asked another reporter.

“I think it’ll be the easiest thirty minutes of the mission,” he replied with a smile. “It’s my stepping stone to Hollywood.”

“We have a running bet to see who gets the first offer,” Elliot Schwartz added, leaning into his microphone. Schwartz was the
Naiad's
pilot and second in command. His face was thin and gaunt, with pockmarked cheeks and intense black eyes. He had been a fighter pilot in the U.S. Air Force for nearly a decade and was slated to captain the maiden voyage of Templar’s second, and as-yet unnamed, orbiter.

Another reporter asked what they had for their last meal.

“Eggs, toast, and juice,” said the third astronaut. Todd Boynton was the Mission Specialist. He was a former instructor pilot and had actually been on more space missions than anyone else on the crew, having logged over two hundred hours in space during his tenure at NASA. He was a small, compact man. His bald scalp was compensated with thick, dark eyebrows and a matching beard.

“They don’t allow snacks before launch, but I usually manage to sneak aboard a candy bar or two,” Schwartz added.

“You’ve been holding out on us on the test flights?” McManus cried out with feigned shock. “Hand ’em over!”

The last question of the morning was whether anyone was planning to smuggle any other contraband onto the International Space Station.

With amused smiles, the astronauts refused to answer.

The press conference ended on an upbeat note. After a final farewell, security escorted the astronauts out of the room, and they headed to the Operations Support Wing for their final suit-up before launch.

***

Dr. Noah Gettleman, Senior Flight Director of the Thomas Dorian Space Center, stood proudly on the upper command platform of the Launch Control Tower, overlooking the two wide trenches of computer consoles that supported twenty-four workstations.

The atmosphere in the brightly-lit room was subdued and professional. Station techs and engineers spoke quietly into microphones, as communications transmitted over dozens of private and public channels. Others were moving about, checking in with stations and moving on. Four observation windows allowed a panoramic view of the massive Vehicle Assembly Building, the runway, and beyond. Mounted above the windows were three huge monitors that displayed a myriad of technical readouts, projected weather conditions and system statuses. Gettleman clasped his hands behind his back as the red numbers ticked down on the countdown clock above the center display.

He felt exhilarated.

This was just like the old days at NASA.

Almost.

He grunted as he brought his hands back around and rubbed them together anxiously. Large in both height and girth, Noah Gettleman was a man who would have avoided exercise even if he had the time for it. His neck bulged out from around his collar and tie. An unkempt mop of brown hair peaked over his wrinkled brow and flushed cheeks.

Gettleman had joined NASA in the early ‘90s, worked his way up from a console technician to an assistant flight director, and had attained flight director status by the early 2000s. He had overseen a dozen space shuttle missions before one of the agency's endless rounds of budget cuts forced him into early retirement. Soon after, leveraging his experience and contacts, Gettleman became a freelance consultant in the aerospace industry.

As a consultant, he’d made more money in that first year than he had the previous five at his old job. However, after a few years of flying around the country, bouncing from project to project for one company or another, the lifestyle became tiresome. He missed being a part of a team.

In the end, it had taken only a single phone call and a two-hour telephone interview with a recruiter from Templar Enterprises to get Gettleman back in the old game.

Almost
the old game, he reminded himself again. Templar Enterprises was far less bureaucratic than NASA. The pay was better, there was less infighting over resources, and there was much better media coverage. Templar wasn’t necessarily a better organization than NASA, but being a commercial enterprise did have its advantages.

Giving the room a final appraising nod, Gettleman turned and glanced up at the glass-enclosed observation gallery half a floor above. Gettleman had been provided a guest list, but in all honesty, he didn’t care about playing to an audience. With a grunt, he turned back to his command console. His stomach grumbled, though no one sitting near him appeared to notice. Taking the noise as a sign of trouble to come, he reached for a bottle on the desk, popped two antacid tablets into his mouth, and crunched them loudly.

Officially, the launch countdown clock began ticking at T-3 hours. Excluding the built-in hold times, it would take about another hour to conduct the final launch procedures. They were on a tight schedule, and everything had to perform flawlessly. After all, thousands of people were watching them today, not including the esteemed guests upstairs.

“Thrust barrier on standby,” announced a female voice over the public address system. The sound echoed throughout the tower. “All primary launch systems nominal.” Although Templar's single-stage to space orbiter was supposed to be as routine to launch as a passenger airliner, multiple redundant safety procedures bogged down the countdown sequence. The details sometimes contributed to nerve-wracking delays, though Gettleman would have it no other way. No matter what anyone thought, no matter how advanced the technology, space flight was and always would be a complex endeavor.