The next day, in one of the Pentagon’s giant white meeting rooms, McPherson feels talons of nervousness digging into him. A whole lot of people fill the room, including big groups from all five bidders: Aeritalia, Fairchild, McDonnell/Douglas, Parnell, and LSR, each team gathered in knots around the room. McPherson eyes the other companies’ teams curiously. Jocularity with the rest of his own group is a tough bit of acting, and it’s doubtful that he really pulls it off. Really all he wants is to sit.
It’s actually a relief to see the Air Force colonel come into the room and stride to the flag-bedecked podium at the front. Video lights snap on and a microphone in the cluster of them at the podium begins to hum. It’s another big media conference, the Pentagon’s idea of high entertainment. And everyone else seems to agree. Several cameras are trained on the speaker, and McPherson recognizes many of the trade reporters, from Aviation Week and Space Technology, National Defense, SDI Today, Military Space, L-5 Newsletter, The Highest Frontier, Electronic Defense, and so on; ID badges also announce reporters from The Wall Street Journal, AP, UPI, Science News, Science, Time, and many newspapers. This is big news, and the Pentagon has been canny about turning the award ceremonies into PR events for itself. The colonel who will be their master of ceremonies is obviously an experienced PR man: a handsome flyboy, McPherson thinks sourly, about to award the contract that will make pilots obsolete.
For the sake of the reporters and cameras, they first have to endure a glowing description of the Stormbee system and its tremendous importance for American security. Also its great size and monetary worth, of course. Tension among the competitors present reduces them all to a state of sullen, tight attentiveness. Nearly seventy minds are thinking, Get to it, you bastard, get to it. But it’s part of the ritual, one of the reminders of who is boss in this game.…
For a moment McPherson is distracted by these thoughts, and then he hears: “We’re pleased to announce that the contract for the Stormbee system has been awarded to Parnell Aviation Incorporated. Their winning bid totaled six hundred ninety-nine million dollars. Details of the decision process are available in the document that will now be distributed.”
McPherson’s stomach has closed down to a singularity. Lemon is red-faced with anger, and something in his expression ignites fury in McPherson more than the announcement itself did. He snatches one of the booklets being passed around, reads the basic information page feverishly. When he finishes he is so surprised that he stops and goes back to read it more slowly, blinking in disbelief.
Apparently they’re using a YAG laser system, in a two-pod configuration. And $669 million! It’s impossible! It’s instantly clear that Parnell has made a lower bid than they can possibly stick to. And the Air Force has let the fraud pass. Has, in fact, colluded in it. The room is filling with incredulous or angry voices, enough to overwhelm the happy chatter of the Parnell team, as more and more people get the gist of the booklet. Reporters are scurrying around, surrounding the Parnell group, faces bright under the video lights—disembodied pink faces, smiles, eyes—
Something snaps in McPherson. He stands, speech spills out of him. “By God, they’ve rigged it! We’ve got the best proposal in there, and they’ve given it to one that’s an obvious lie!”
Lemon and the rest of the Laguna Hills folks are staring at him in amazement. They’ve never in their lives heard such an outburst from Dennis McPherson, and they’re really taken aback. Art Wong’s mouth hangs open.
Donald Hereford, silver-haired and calm, just looks at McPherson impassively. “You think their bid is unrealistically low?”
“It’s impossibly low! I can’t imagine the MPC evaluations letting this crap pass! And the proposal itself—look how they’ve ignored the specs in the RFP—two pods, YAG laser, eleven point eight KVA, why the planes won’t have the power to run these rigs!” Heart racing, face flushed hot, McPherson slams the booklet down on the back of a chair. “We’ve been screwed!”
Hereford nods once, no expression on his face at all. “You’re certain our proposal is superior to this?”
“Yes,” McPherson grates out. “We had a better proposal.”
Hereford’s mouth tightens. After a moment he says, “If we let them do it this time, they’ll feel free to do it again. The whole bid process will unhinge.”
He looks at Lemon. “We’ll file a protest.”
The possibility hadn’t even occurred to McPherson. His eyes fix on Hereford. A protest!…
Lemon starts to say something: “But—”
Hereford cuts him off with a hand motion, a quick chop. Perhaps he’s angry too? Impossible to tell. “Contact our law firm here in Washington, and start giving them all the particulars. We need to hurry. If there are irregularities in their compliance with the RFP, then we may be able to get a court injunction to halt the award immediately.”
Court injunction.
McPherson’s stomach begins to return to him, a little at a time. They have recourse to some legal action, apparently. It’s a new area for him, he doesn’t know much about it.
Lemon is swallowing, nodding. “Okay. We’ll do it.” He looks confused.
McPherson forces down a few deep breaths, thinking court injunction, court injunction. Meanwhile, across the room, the Parnell people are still in paroxysms of joy, the dishonest bastards. They know better than anyone else that they can’t possibly build the Stormbee system for only $699 million. It’s just a ploy to get the bid; later they can get into the matter of some unfortunate “cost overruns.” It can only be a deliberate plan on their part, a deliberate lie. That’s the competition, the people he has to put his own work up against: cheaters and liars. With the Air Force going along with them all the way, completely a part of it, of the cheating and lying. In control of it, in fact. Feeling physically ill, McPherson sits down heavily and stares through the booklet, seeing nothing at all.
35
Sandy Chapman is in the middle of an ordinary business day, snorting Polymorpheus and listening to The Underachievers with his friend and client John Sturmond, watching the hang-gliding championships at Victoria Falls on John’s wall video and talking about the commercial possibilities of a small-scale aural hallucinogen. Suddenly John’s ally Vikki Gale bursts in, all upset. “We’ve been ripped off!”
Turns out that she and John fronted nearly a liter of the Buzz to a retailer of theirs named Adam, who has now disappeared from the face of OC. No chance of finding him, or collecting the bill, which means they are out some ten thousand dollars. Gone like a dollar bill dropped in the street, and with no lost and found. And no police to call. It’s gone. The price you pay for bad character judgment.
Vikki is collapsed on the couch crying, John is up striding around, shouting, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! I knew I shouldn’t have trusted that guy!”
Heavy gloom ensues. Sandy sighs, roots around in his Adidas bag and pulls out a large eyedropper of California Mello. “Here,” he says. “There’s only one solution to a situation like this, and that’s to get as stoned as you can.”
So they start lidding. “Think of it as an event,” Sandy drones. “An experience. I mean, how often does it happen? It’s great, in a way. Teaches you some about the realms of experience and emotion.”
“For sure,” Vikki says.
“I’m with you there,” says John.
“Besides, I fronted you, and okayed the front to this thief Adam, so I’ll halve the loss with you. We’ll just have to sell more and make it back.”
“For sure.”