Shattered Legacy (11 page)

Kanavos gazed down at the computer with a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. “How do I work it?”

She smiled. “You ever use the internet? Search for stuff?”

“Sure.”

“This works the same way.” She reached down and tapped the keyboard. A browser window appeared. She tapped in a username and password. The screen cleared and she typed in a few more commands. “There you are. You can do your document retrieval by keyword and date. Related documents are hyperlinked. I’ve limited your queries to only the orbiter maintenance records.”

Kanavos sat down and rubbed his hands.

“Do you have the work order numbers?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Kanavos replied, pulling a slip of paper from his pocket.

The
Naiad's
engine systems had undergone extensive testing and refitting after each shakedown flight. A problem had been discovered with the engine cowlings after the first two flights.

Noah Gettleman had asked Kanavos to find the original repair orders and any related problem tickets on the cowlings. Normally, that would have been a simple request. Only when Kanavos went to check on the jobs in the digital archives did he realize why Gettleman was concerned. Apparently, the tracking records did not exist anymore. Worse than that, there was no record of there ever having been a problem with the engine cowlings in the first place.

That struck Kanavos as odd, because he remembered that his team had helped refit the cowlings at least once.

So what happened? Had the repairs been purged from the computer systems?

That was unlikely. Virtually everything that happened at the Thomas Dorian Space Center was tracked one way or another. Templar Enterprises also made extensive use of imaging systems to convert all hard-copy documents to digital form. All incoming mail, technical paperwork, and hard-copy internal memos were scanned and archived to a closed archive network that was not accessible to the outside world. That was why he needed to be in the Records Retention Room to access the information.

As he started pulling up the work orders, it dawned on him that if he were caught snooping here, Noah Gettleman would probably deny everything. Then again, he was already in enough trouble. What could really make things worse?

He looked up to see the young woman still standing beside him, fidgeting nervously. She had broken several security protocols by even allowing Kanavos access to the room, but she was too polite to point that out now.

He checked his watch. His lunch break ended in ten minutes. He searched the work order numbers, opening each return in a new browser window, occasionally switching between them to compare the results.

As he examined the records, he tried to draw the woman into casual conversation. “You get many visitors down here?” he asked, squinting at the screen.

“Only during the day,” she replied, still watching him carefully. “We get mostly interoffice mail guys. They drop off material for processing. Nobody ever comes back for anything. I think you’re the first person in months who’s actually wanted to pull anything
out
of here.”

Kanavos suddenly stopped flipping between screens and inhaled sharply. “Oh, man.”

“What is it?” The woman leaned down and looked over his shoulder. On the screen was an enlarged image of a standard work order form. Kanavos recognized the completion signature as his own. He flipped to the next screen and back again.

“Oh, man,” he repeated, softer.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” She turned her head to stare at his profile. “Did you win your bet?”

“Oh, yeah.” He nodded slowly. “Somebody's going to owe me big-time.”

WEDNESDAY

(AP) – Three hundred million people worldwide watched Monday's broadcast of the Naiad liftoff. The orbiter is expected to dock with the International Space Station on Thursday. - Templar Enterprises stock price rebounds from yesterday’s plunge. Some analysts believe the rise is due to anticipation of future space missions. “The stock has performed remarkably well,” states Bernard Drefus, Senior Portfolio Manager at Tobaro Investors, LLC. “This is despite the fact that the company went public without the expectation of profits for several years.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

W. Sinclair Dorian had funded one of the largest corporate takeovers of the 2000s when the sixty-four year old billionaire bought up a controlling interest in Templar Enterprises, an aerospace conglomerate he had founded in 1987. The takeover had been relatively smooth, since Dorian already owned nearly a third of the company stock. After reacquiring control, he reorganized the board of directors and spearheaded a management shift that returned the company’s focus to purely aerospace ventures.

He then presented his company with a single, monumental goal: to build a reusable orbiter that could take off and land like a conventional aircraft, and could launch a payload into space at a price of less than a hundred dollars a pound.

In addition, he wanted the company to make this technically feasible within three years, and to make the venture profitable within five.

Taking his vision to the public, Dorian spoke confidently of the private sector's ability to revolutionize the space industry, expand space tourism, colonize the solar system, and to bring about a common goal for humankind. While his ideas were inspired, many thought Dorian was a crackpot, trying to regain the lost glory of his old entrepreneurial days. Regardless, the old man lectured tirelessly, stressing that those willing to invest in space exploration today would reap untold future dividends. He explained to skeptics that although he could afford to build his orbiter himself, he did not want to do so. He believed exploration should be a shared undertaking, in both risk and reward.

To put that belief in practice, Dorian raised the necessary capital in the form of a public stock offering.

Though the speculative nature of the venture made institutional investors wary, the public offering of a space exploration company ignited the imaginations of many. By making the initial public offering affordable - ten dollars a share for non-voting preferred stock - Templar Enterprises secured underwriters and raised three point five billion dollars from mostly small, individual investors. The stock doubled in value within the first full week of NASDAQ trading, and quadrupled in price over the next six months.

Despite the initial infusion of capital, Templar’s cash needs soon ballooned. With no short-term promise of profits, and knowing that technology licensing would not raise much money for several years, Templar turned to shameless merchandising as an additional revenue source. Critics complained the commercialism went too far as books, videos, and even toys were hawked to promote the company and the mission.

Surprisingly, especially to marketing insiders, the commercial blitz lasted longer, and was far more profitable, than expected. Product licensing became hugely lucrative, especially after the orbiter's design and colors were finalized; a year after Dorian’s hardcover book “Colonize” hit the shelves, the paperback version was still on the New York Times bestseller list, generating royalties for the company.

While he continued to be the ‘face’ of the company, the research and development continued. Engineers and support staff were hired, manufacturing facilities were constructed, and the Thomas Dorian Space Center was built in the New Mexico desert. Several months later, the first orbiter was constructed.

However, just as the program was finally coming together, in the midst of Templar's growing accomplishments, few noticed that Sinclair Dorian had all but vanished from public life.

***

Hands planted firmly on her hips, Shannon Kiel stood in the open doorway, the only barrier between the FBI agents in the hallway and Sinclair Dorian's bedroom. Her face was set in an intimidating scowl. She had answered the front door abruptly, escorted Agents Lowell and Ramirez through the house without a word, and now stared at them with a look normally reserved for vermin. Sinclair Dorian had agreed to see the agents, and that was the only reason they were allowed onto the property without a court order.

“You have fifteen minutes,” she told the men flatly. “Mr. Dorian is a busy man.”

The agents replied with curt nods.

With a final disapproving twist of her lip, Shannon pushed through the agents, conspicuously leaving the bedroom door wide open. She stomped down the hallway and turned the corner. When the agents were sure she was gone, they stepped inside the room and shut the door.

The bedroom was large and spacious. The heavy curtains were drawn back. Sunlight streamed in from the large picture window. Sinclair Dorian was sitting up against the headboard of his king-size bed. A quilt was pulled up over his waist. His hands rested comfortably in his lap. He wore a T-shirt and an expression of complete exhaustion. White clumps of hair stuck out from the sides of his head.

“I'm sorry,” he said, plucking the front of his shirt with gnarled fingers. “My gout has been acting up. Haven't been in a mood for getting dressed.”

“That's all right,” the first agent replied, masking his surprise. This old man looked nothing like the vibrant man he had seen so often on television. With a shock, he realized why Dorian had become a recluse; the man was sick, probably dying. “Thank you for seeing us, Mr. Dorian. We spoke on the phone earlier. I'm Special Agent Lowell. This is Special Agent Ramirez.”

Dorian shot up a hand as the men approached the bed. The agents froze. Dorian smacked his lips, then raised a thin, spindly arm and pointed across the room. “Sit over there.”

The agents turned to the hard-backed antique rockers set against the opposite wall. They sat down, and after an awkward moment of silence, Lowell glanced over at the massive wall-mounted television that faced the bed. “Nice set for the Sunday game. Are you a sports fan, Mr. Dorian?”

“Only if I have money riding on it,” Dorian replied. He was studying the agents carefully. “I trust you won't arrest an old man for placing a few friendly bets?”

“I think we can let it slide.”

“No.” Dorian suddenly frowned. “No, I don't watch sports. Waste of time. Today's athletes are temperamental assholes. It's all about money and nothing about the game.”

That brought a smile to Lowell's lips. Besides being more physically frail than he imagined, Dorian's personality was completely different than he expected. He imagined Dorian would be smoother, more salesman-like.

Reluctantly, he turned to business. “Are you aware of our current situation?”

“Are you aware of
ours
?” Dorian shot back.

The agents exchanged glances. “What do you mean?” Lowell asked.

Dorian rubbed his eye with one hand. “Gentlemen, do you really know why you are here?” He let the question hang as he shifted against his pillows and squinted against the bright sunlight.

Lowell glanced around. From the moment he walked into the room, he felt that something was out of the ordinary. It took him about two seconds to work it out. This wasn't Dorian's bedroom - at least not his regular bedroom. There were no personal belongings on the dressers or nightstand. No bottles or books. There was nothing to indicate that this room was regularly used. The room even smelled too clean.

Dorian looked back at the agents. “You need to understand what Templar Enterprises is all about.”

“Perhaps you could tell us, Mr. Dorian,” Ramirez prompted gently.

Dorian sighed again. “You've heard of NASA?”

“Of course.”

“Currently, NASA's annual budget is about enough to support some heavy-lift rocket systems, a few robotic exploration missions, and several smaller programs. But it isn't enough to include a lunar program or a manned expedition to another planet. To be honest, we’re about thirty years behind where we should be.”

“Okay,” Ramirez said.

“My company is trying to close the gap. We’re going beyond what the government is willing to do. We’ve put a lot of talent and money toward making space travel affordable and accessible. We have a way to go, but we are getting there.”

Lowell raised his hand. “Sir, I don't see -”

Dorian continued without pause. “Mr. Lowell, I’ve put together a fantastic team of people with a vision for the future. I'm just the front man. I put up the money, do the television interviews, and generally charm the hell out of people. You need to take your problems up with the people who are actively involved in our day-to-day management. The only reason I agreed to speak with you today was to ask you a favor.”

Ramirez opened his mouth to reply, but Lowell silenced him with an upraised hand. The senior agent squared his shoulders and leaned forward. His wooden chair squeaked. “We're not in a position to grant favors, Mr. Dorian.”

The corners of Dorian's mouth tugged to smile. “You won't indulge an old man?”

Lowell grimaced. “What would you like us to do?”

“I know you people chomp at the bit with these sorts of things, but I would appreciate it if you could suspend your investigation until after our orbiter lands this Friday.”

Completely floored, both agents stared at the old man. Either Dorian was exceptionally naïve, or he was far more clever than he let on. What he was asking was impossible. Even if the agents wanted to delay the investigation, the matter was out of their hands.

The agents remained silent for a moment, and then Lowell asked, “How involved are you with what goes on in your company, Mr. Dorian?”

“With regards to what?”

“Would you be aware, for example, of how your company budgets its money?”

“Maybe. Name something.”

“Research and Development,” Lowell suggested with a shrug, curious whether Dorian was more than merely the figurehead he claimed to be.

“Last year we spent about one hundred million dollars on applied research and development,” Dorian recalled, rubbing the stubble under his lower lip with his finger. “This year we’ll recoup roughly two thirds of that through patent licensing and royalty income.” Then he grunted again, satisfied, and shifted again on his pillows. “Anything else you want to know?”