Free Privateers by Ben Bova

said, his outstretched arm sweeping out the view.
    Malik turned slowly in a full circle, squinting against the brutal afternoon sun. The other Russians looked distinctly uncomfortable, even a little fearful. Maybe they’ll pass out, like Pete did, Dan hoped. Maybe they’ll all get sunstroke and die.
    “A tropical paradise,” Malik said. “I envy you.”
    “It is pretty,” Dan agreed.
    The Caribbean glittered alluringly under a sky of brilliant blue. Stately cumulus clouds towered like the turrets of some giant’s castle, row after row, sailing slowly across the afternoon. The sun was a molten glowing eye blazing down at them. Turning to take in the panorama, Dan saw the lush green mountains that stood between the coast and the teeming city of Caracas. They hid the city and the ugly sprawl of squatters’ shacks that huddled around it. The old airport lay across the narrow channel from the man-made island where they stood. Its long concrete runways were used only for space shuttle flights now. A massive double-decked shuttle was trundling slowly down to the end of the runway as they watched, the roaring whine of its jet engines no more than a thin keening at this distance. Riding atop the swept-wing lifter was the stubby, fat Orbiter with its delta-shaped wings and big rocket nozzles poking out from under its rakish tail fin.
    The double-decked craft hesitated at the end of the long runway for a moment, seemed to gather itself, then lumbered down the two-mile-long concrete strip, gathering speed, its engines thundering with undeniable power as it lifted its nose off the runway and then raised itself and its piggyback Orbiter off the ground and arrowed up into the blue.
    Dan glanced at his watch. “The lifter will be back in half an hour. And there’ll be an Orbiter landing in about an hour, if you want to go over to the field and watch it come in.”
    “What will it be carrying?” Malik asked.
    Frowning slightly, Dan pecked at the tiny keys on his wristwatch. He held it to his ear so that he could hear the information he had asked for, then repeated:
    “Mixed cargo of pharmaceuticals, high-strength alloys and electronics components-mostly gallium arsenide microchips, I suppose.”
    The Russians glanced uneasily at each other and began to mutter in their own language.
    “That’s La Guaira over there.” Dan pointed toward the port. A tourist cruise ship was in the harbor, its red funnel bearing the hammer and sickle insignia. It was impossible to make out the cable car tramway that led up into the mist-shrouded mountains and then down the other side into Caracas, but Dan knew it would be packed with Russians and Eastern Europeans today.
    Malik was smiling like a video star. “You picked a perfect location for your operation. A perfect location.”
    Where else could I go, Dan fumed silently, after you forced America to give up space operations? Aloud, he said merely, “It’s near the equator. That gives us some advantage from the Earth’s spin.”
    “And the Venezuelan government is very cooperative,” the Russian said.
    Dan sensed a trap ahead. “This entire operation,” he answered slowly, “belongs to the Venezuelan government. To the people of Venezuela, since this country is a democracy. Astro Manufacturing Corporation operates this facility under contract to the government. This is not a privately owned facility.” Otherwise, he added silently, you would never have gotten past the front gate without a squad of tanks.
    “Yes, of course,” Malik agreed easily, still grinning. “But you manage to make a profit from all this, even though it belongs properly to the people of Venezuela.”
    “1 manage to eke out a living,” Dan replied, smiling back at him. “And so do the people of this country. This space manufacturing operation accounts for as much of Venezuela’s gross national product as her oil exports, and twice as much as her agricultural exports.”
    “But how much profit do you make?”