The Cassandra Project (12 page)

“And if nothing’s there?” asked
The New York Times
.

“Then I’ll have had the trip of a lifetime, and every one of you will wish you’d been there instead of me.”

“And if you find out you were wrong, won’t there be any consequences?” persisted
The Times
.

“Yes, there will,” said Bucky. “I’ll have lost almost all credibility, and it’ll be a long time before anyone believes me again. But the beauty of a free society is that I
can
make a fool of myself, and each of you can—and doubtless have—done the same and survived it.”

He spent ten more minutes answering variations of the same questions, and the press started getting annoyed that he wouldn’t give them the facts they wanted, or admit he didn’t have enough proof to make such outrageous statements.

Finally, he closed it off, went back inside, and instructed Brent to lock the entrance so they couldn’t follow him all the way up to his office, as he was sure they wanted to do. Then he and Brent rode up to the penthouse, where his office overlooked the city.

“I saw you on the tube,” reported Gloria, when he entered the office. She smiled. “I’m amazed I haven’t quit and reported you to the local asylum.” Then: “Are you
really
going on the Moon flight?”

“I said so.”

“When did you decide? Today? Yesterday?”

“The truth?” asked Bucky with a guilty smile. “When I had my last checkup four months ago and my doctor said my body could handle it.”

“You never told us.”

“That was four months I didn’t have to argue with all my well-meaning staff members who thought the trip would kill me,” replied Bucky. He walked over to his desk, where Sabina was staring at his computer screen. “How’s it going?”

“I found one,” she responded, looking up at him. “The
only
one—Amos Bartlett.”

“He’s the only survivor from two Moon flights?”

“That’s right, sir. I mean, Bucky.”

“If you know that, the press has to know it, too,” said Bucky. “It’s been two nights since I made that speech. They’ve got to have tracked him down. What has he said?”

“Not a thing,” replied Sabina.

“Don’t tell me he’s a mute?”

“No, sir . . . Bucky. But he’s very sick and can’t have visitors. He’s living by himself in an assisted-living home. When the press found it, they camped out there. The home got a court order to get them off the property, but they surrounded it, and he’s been moved to a military hospital, where they
can
keep the press away.”

“How sick is he?” asked Bucky. “Likely to die before we can reach him?”

Sabina smiled. “He’s old, and he’s infirm, or he wouldn’t be in an assisted-living facility, but I don’t think he’s sick at all.”

“Music to mine ears! Tell me why you think that.”

“I did something that’s probably illegal, sir,” she said, so intent on her revelation she forgot to correct herself and call him Bucky. “I phoned the closest pharmacy to the facility on the assumption that that’s where they’d get their prescriptions, pretended I was the home, and said I was just double-checking to make sure they’d transferred Bartlett’s prescriptions to the hospital. They told me they’d transferred the Lipitor, but thought the hospital would be taking his blood pressure and might want to change the dosage on his Diovan.”

“Cholesterol and blood pressure,” repeated Bucky happily. “Hardly the sign of a dying man, especially since they didn’t change the one and didn’t seem to think the other was due for an instant change. Yeah, he’s healthy, all right. The only question is whether he’s in the hospital against his will or not.”

“I can’t tell that from the computer, Bucky,” said Sabina.

“No, we’ll have to ask him in person. Thanks, Sabina. You used your brains and your initiative, and that’s what I’m paying you for. You’ll find a pleasant surprise in your next check.”

“Thank you, Bucky,” she said, getting to her feet. “It was a pleasure. Anytime I can help you . . .”

“I’ll remember,” he said, escorting her to the door. When she’d left, he turned to Gloria. “How much is she making?”

Gloria shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Find out, and raise her two hundred a week.”

“Right,” she said, jotting it down in a notebook. “Anything else?”

“Find out what hospital they’re keeping Bartlett in, buy Camden a plane ticket, and send him out there to talk to him.”

“Just to talk?”

“If he’d like to come back here, and the hospital will let him go—don’t forget, it’s military—fine. But if he’s got something to say, have Camden buy whatever he’s got to say.”

“He’ll want to know how high he can go.”

“Whatever it takes. I’d like to send someone else—Camden’s face is pretty well-known—but he’s as good as we’ve got at spotting someone who’s lying.”

“You want to send someone else, someone with a real brain who
isn’t
known to anyone with a television set?” said Gloria. “Send Sabina.”

He considered it for a moment. “What the hell—why not? Send her back up here, and I’ll give her instructions—what to ask, what to look for, what to ignore. And what to offer.”

Late that night, after he’d sent Sabina on her way, and Jason Brent had driven him home, he walked out to the deck behind his villa, drink in hand, and stared up at the full moon in the cloudless sky.

Well, I’ve got the whole country talking about it now,
he thought.
I wonder what the hell really
did
happen up there.

A growing excitement encompassed him as he realized that he was actually going to find out.

After Morgan Blackstone signed off, Jerry’s phone started ringing. CBS, Fox,
The Orlando Sentinel
,
The
New York Times
. What was his reaction to Blackstone’s comments? Did Jerry really believe there’d been secret landings? Could he imagine any reason why there
might
have been?

Jerry tried to respond by saying the story was impossible to take seriously and he’d have to let it go at that. But nobody cooperated. If he couldn’t take it seriously, what was the confrontation with Frank Kirby all about? “I just don’t know what the truth is,” he told
The
Philadelphia Inquirer
. “The conspiracy theory makes no sense. So no, I don’t agree with Blackstone. Sometimes I wonder if Walker and Myshko planned the whole thing just to give us something to talk about.” And when
The
Los Angeles Times
told him that was crazy, he agreed.

Jerry would have been grateful to see Morgan Blackstone just go away. Retire somewhere to a mountaintop and fade from view. No, not
fade
. Vanish altogether. Exit stage right.

He’d watched Blackstone’s catastrophic TV appearance with a sense of growing horror. If the issue had been perceived as a trifle eccentric before, it was now outright lunacy. The guy came off as a thoroughgoing nutcase. Jerry had been munching a tuna fish sandwich when it started. Five minutes into the rant, he very nearly threw it at the TV. Then he began wondering whether this was how Mary perceived
him
. He and Blackstone were, after all, saying the same thing. But there was a difference. Jerry was more inclined to
imply
that something wasn’t right with the official story. Blackstone had taken an earthmover to it. Furthermore, Jerry was known to the general public. His was the face of NASA. People knew who he was, and they had no reason to doubt his good sense. Everybody trusted him. Blackstone, on the other hand, for all his money, had never been a public figure. Now he was becoming one of the best-known people in the country. MSNBC delivered an instant poll showing that 98 percent of those polled could identify him, and that four out of five classified him as deranged. Or worse. One of the “political advisors” on CBS commented that he also had the effect of scaring people. “Look,” he said, “they know this guy is going to be launching rockets.” And therein lay the problem. Blackstone had stirred up such a commotion that Jerry could not hope to pursue the matter quietly.
Thanks a lot, Bucky.

Barbara was at her desk when he arrived at the office the next day. She looked at him with a mixture of dismay and sympathy. And there was something else, something in her tone that suggested she no longer saw him the same way. She’d been his secretary for a year and a half. In fact, she’d been more than that: She’d been a friend. But when he walked in that morning, it was as if a gulf had opened between them. It wasn’t that she’d grown distant. But as if they no longer knew each other.

Ordinarily, if a major NASA story had broken during the course of an evening, it would have been front and center when he came into the office. Jerry, did you see what they were doing in the space station? Or, had he heard about Commander Ryan and the stripper? But on this day, she’d simply looked his way, eyes half-averted. “Hello, Jerry,” she’d said, with a weak smile. “How’s it going?” How, indeed?

Mary hadn’t called yet. She couldn’t have been happy.

He pushed back in his chair and focused on the photograph of himself and three Girl Scouts gathered in front of a test rocket in the museum. It had been taken only last month The kids were from Troop 17, based at one of the local churches. Suddenly, it seemed a long time ago. A happier time——

He was scheduled to interview Petra Bauer, a NASA physicist, later that morning. Jerry was a regular contributor to NASA TV. It was, in fact, the aspect of his job that he most enjoyed. His biggest laugh line always came when he claimed that his earliest ambition was to be an astronaut, but that he had a problem with heights. The line probably worked because people could see the truth in it. One look at Jerry told you he was not a charge-the-hill kind of guy. Mostly, Jerry was about getting along. He had social skills that wouldn’t quit, a talent for making people like him. He was a good speaker, and he had a passion for spaceflight. As long as other people were doing it.

He was a perfect fit for his job. Or he had been until Sidney Myshko’s long silence turned up.

Blackstone was convinced there’d been a landing. Jerry thought
maybe
it had happened. Something clearly had been going on. But he could not imagine any reason for the secrecy.
So explain yourself, Bucky. Come up with a theory. Give me a scenario that makes sense.

His phone beeped. “Mary’s on the line,” said Barbara.

He picked up. “Good morning, Mary.”

“You saw Blackstone last night?” She sounded tired.

“I saw him, yes.”

“This thing just won’t go away.” He heard music in the background. Mary had a taste for symphonies. “I’d like very much to get rid of it, Jerry.” “I’m sorry it’s been causing a problem.”

“It isn’t your fault. I’d probably have done the same thing if I’d been in your position. I’ll admit that it’s got me wondering, though. Still, I just want it to stop.” “What’s the latest?”

“Armbruster and Collins, this morning. They’re already talking about cutting back on our budget.” Two members of Congress who’d based their careers on getting rid of what they called wasteful spending. NASA had always been near the top of their list. “The problem is that we’re being associated with Blackstone. With this whole goddamned story.” Jerry listened to birds singing in the trees. Their lives looked so much better than his. “I got a lot of calls from the media last night,” he said. “Asking for a reaction. But I backed off. Told them I didn’t know any more than they did.” “Did they let you get away with that, Jerry?” Her voice hardened.

“Yes,” he said. “Up to a point. They tried to get more. But—” “Okay. Good. I think that’s exactly the right tack. We need to keep a low profile for a while. Let Blackstone carry the ball.” She paused, and he locked in on the music. Rachmaninoff, maybe? The classical composers all sounded alike to him. “By the way—” She frowned. Bad news coming. “I’m replacing you on the interview today.” He growled under his breath. “You really think that’s necessary?” “It’s a precaution, Jerry. I think, for a while, the less the public sees you, the better off we’ll be.” Jerry let her see he was unhappy. “Okay. Whatever you say.” “Later, when things calm down, we can go back to normal.”

“Who’s going to do the interview?”

“Martin.”

Martin Moreau was the personnel chief at the Space Center. He outranked Jerry, and though Jerry would not have admitted it even to himself, he would be a good replacement. Well, adequate. He didn’t have Jerry’s style. Jerry’s showbiz approach. But nobody did. Not along the Cape, anyhow.

—

Suddenly, he was looking at a depleted morning. He sat listening to the clock while his resentment grew. He thought about going up to Mary’s office and offering his resignation.
That way you won’t have to worry about my reminding people about NASA.

Why did no one else care? Other than Blackstone?

Even Barbara had backed off.

“Jerry?” Her voice. “You have a visitor. A Mr. Collander?”

“Who?”

“Joseph Collander. Security just called. He’s apparently down at the entrance. Says he would like to see you. “ “Did he say what about?”

“Myshko.”

Another crank. “Tell him I’m out. Tell him I’ve gone to Egypt on a goodwill tour.” “Jerry, he says his father worked for us back in the sixties.” Jerry hesitated. He didn’t want to get in any deeper. On the other hand—“Okay. Let me talk to him.” Barbara switched him over. “Dr. Culpepper?” The voice was thin. It seemed reluctant, hesitant.

“I don’t have a doctorate, Mr. Collander,” Jerry said. “What can I do for you?” “Mr. Culpepper, my father was a computer technician for NASA back during the sixties and seventies. I might have something you’d be interested in hearing.” Jerry took a deep breath. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

—

Joseph Collander did not match his voice. He was a big guy, the type who might have been a linebacker in his earlier years. He was dressed informally, which of course was standard along the Space Coast. Casual open-neck shirt with a University of Florida emblem on the pocket, and a Rays baseball cap. “Mr. Culpepper,” he said, “I’m sorry to take up your time. I was watching that guy on TV last night. Blackberry or something—“Blackstone,” said Jerry. He led Collander into a conference room.

“Yeah. That’s it. And I know you were involved in it, too. The business about maybe somebody landing on the Moon before Neil Armstrong.” “What did you want to tell me, Mr. Collander?”

“Joe, please. And, to answer your question as honestly as I can, that press conference last night, I know this will sound crazy, but it reminded me of something my dad told me years ago.” “What’s that?”

“You know that the first time we got a look at the back side of the Moon was when a Russian probe took pictures in, I think, 1959. We got some pictures ourselves during the sixties. They distributed them to the media, and they were big news for a while. Then we stopped.” “Making the pictures available to the media, you mean.”

“Yes. My dad said they were still getting pictures, but nobody got to see them. Including my dad and the people working with him. There was no indication whether they’d been classified. I mean, there wouldn’t be any reason to classify them unless they’d spotted a Soviet base back there. Then, after a while, everything got back to normal.” “Your father was seeing the pictures again.”

“Yes. There was never any explanation, or even an admission by higher authority that it had happened. In fact, he was told he was imagining it. And when he pushed a little, they told him to shut up.” “When was this?” asked Jerry.

“It was before my time, Mr. Culpepper. It always bothered my father that they’d do something like that and then lie about it. But he swore it happened.” “Can I get you some coffee, Joe?”

“No, thanks. It tends to keep me awake all day.” They both smiled at the joke.

“Is your father—?”

“He died fifteen years ago.”

“Is there anybody else you know of who could back up the story?” “There were a bunch of NASA retired guys living around here at one time. They used to go to lunch together and everything, and I guess they still do. But I don’t think any of the ones from my father’s era are left now.” “Did you ever hear any of the others mention the censorship?” “I really don’t recall, Mr. Culpepper.”

“
Jerry’s
good.”

“Jerry. Okay. But now that I think of it, I
do
remember something else. My dad said that when the analysts got access to the pictures again, there was still a problem. There was an area they were never able to see. It was never visible. As if the pictures had been cropped.” —Jerry called Al Thomas at the Huntsville Archives. Al looked as if he was having a busy day. “What do you need, Jerry?” he asked.

“Al, during the sixties, we took a lot of satellite and probe pictures of the back side of the Moon, right?” “We took some, yes. Mostly from probes.”

“Were any of them ever withheld?”

“You mean classified?”

“Yes.”

“Not that I know of. Hold on a second.” He was back after about three minutes. “No, Jerry,” he said. “The lunar pictures, all of the ones taken by the United States, were distributed to interested researchers as soon as they became available. There’s no indication any of them were ever held back.” “Okay. Can you forward a complete set to me?”

“Jerry, that’s a lot of pictures.”

“It’s important, Al,”

“Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”

Jerry glanced down at the note he’d written himself. “One other thing.” Thomas sighed. “What is it?”

“Mission parameters. I could use them, too. If it’s not too much trouble.” “All right. I’m not really sure what we have. But I’ll dig everything out. Are you in a hurry?” —The pictures came in as Jerry was getting ready to leave for the day. There were hundreds of them, and they were all dated. He brought them up on his display and got lost among craters and ridges and bleak lunar plains. He looked for something, anything, that might have caused someone at a high level to conclude there was a problem. And he felt like an idiot doing it. He had been transformed into a geek at a science-fiction convention.

But there was nothing. No extended time period during which pictures were missing. No secret Soviet base. No automated rocket launcher filled with missiles. No vacuum-breathing Moon people living in a crater.

He read the mission plans. He examined maps of the far side of the Moon and tried to see whether any areas that should have been in the photos were missing. He went down and ate a quick dinner in the cafeteria. Then he went back to his office and looked at the maps some more.

The problem was he didn’t really know what he was doing.

In the morning, he called Cal Dryden, a physics professor at the University of Central Florida. Cal was an enthusiastic supporter of NASA whom Jerry had met at a fund-raising luncheon a year earlier. A secretary told him Professor Dryden was in class, but she’d leave a message. Thirty minutes later he was smiling out of the display. He seemed to get heavier every time Jerry saw him. He’d grown a beard, which was probably a bad idea because it carried streaks of gray and made him look a few years older. Though maybe that was the effect he wanted.

“Hi, Jerry.” He was seated in an armchair with a wall of books behind him. “What can I do for you?” “Cal, I have some pictures of the back side of the Moon. From the late sixties. I was wondering—” How to phrase this? “I think they might be incomplete. I was wondering if you could take time to look at them for me.” Cal’s brow creased. “What do you mean ‘incomplete’?”

“There might be areas that should be there but aren’t. You know, where we have maybe both sides of a section of ground but the middle’s missing.” “You want me to find the missing pieces?”