The Cassandra Project (31 page)

“It wasn’t
that
difficult to find once we doped out where to look,” answered Bucky. “It couldn’t have gone unnoticed all these years. My guess is that it’s back where it came from, some attic or underground vault that maybe three people in the world know about.” “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” admitted Jerry. “But now that you say it, it makes sense.” “That’s because you’re not quite the devious bastard that I am,” said Bucky with a chuckle.

“Thank goodness.” Jerry returned his smile.

“Well,” said Gloria, “I’d better make sure the studio’s spic and span and ready for the press.” “No press,” said Jerry. “This is going out on the airwaves. It’s a speech, not an interview or a press conference.” He turned to Bucky. “At least, I
think
that’s what it is. You didn’t say anything about wanting questions.” “That’s fine. This announcement speaks for itself.” Bucky frowned. “I’ll show photos of the plate, of course—we’ll have the lab make ’em even bigger before the speech—but I wish I had the plate as well.” “You know what would have happened if we’d tried to walk off with it,” said Jerry.

“Yeah,” acknowledged Bucky. “Everyone could visit us on Sundays for the next fifty years.” “The plate is secondary,” said Sabina. “The important thing is the message.” “Yeah, of course it is,” said Bucky. He smiled. “At least I’m not announcing their pending conquest of the Earth.” “Or that the Sun is going nova,” added Gloria.

“Or that there really are four-armed green swordsmen on Mars,” said Jason.

“Yeah, there are worse messages to read,” agreed Bucky.

Then, suddenly, he froze.

“Bucky,” said Jerry, “are you okay?”

“Leave him alone,” said Gloria quickly. “I’ve seen him like this a couple of times before.” “He looks like he’s having a stroke,” said Sabina, also worried.

“He’s all right, believe me,” insisted Gloria.

“Damn!”
snapped Bucky, coming back to life.

“Are you okay?” asked Jerry solicitously.

“I am definitely
not
okay,” growled Bucky, starting to pace back and forth across the office. Suddenly, he stopped and turned to Jerry. “Cancel the telecast.” “Are you crazy?”

“You heard me. Cancel it. If ABC won’t return our money, let ’em keep it.” “But—”

“Just do it! Gloria, contact my pilot. Have him meet me at the corporate jet in an hour. Then you’ll have to make a very private phone call; I’ll be here so I can cut in and vouch for who you are if necessary.” “Where are we going, Boss?” asked Jason.

“You’re not going anywhere,” said Bucky. “This is something I have to do alone.”

“So what do you think, George? We should have heard something by now.”

Cunningham sat back. He’d just finished a conference with the Pentagon people. The brass were unhappy. Tired of congressmen trying to force weapons they didn’t need down their throats to keep the armaments people in their home states happy. “We need better detection equipment,” General Maybury had complained. “For roadside bombs. Nelson tells us sure, they’re getting to it, but let’s concentrate for now on that new upgraded jet CRY has developed.” He was referring to Brig Nelson, head of the Senate Armed Services Committee.

Maybury and his people knew Cunningham had limited control over the situation, but they needed to vent. So they brought it to him. One more advantage of divided government.

The president looked across the desk at Ray. “We’ll be okay,” he said. “Blackstone bought time on ABC tonight. So they’re obviously on board.”

“But he canceled.”

“He’s trying to make up his mind what he wants to say. Relax.”

“Not till I’m sure we’re clear of this.”

“Hey, Ray, take it easy. You know, you tend to be a bit pessimistic. You didn’t even think they’d bite.” They’d just finished watching security-camera images of Jerry and Blackstone going through the archives. Taking pictures of the Greek plate. It was perfect.

Ray had a worried look in his eyes. “I knew we’d be able to manage Jerry okay. He tends to think well of everybody. I just had my doubts about getting it past Blackstone. That son of a bitch trusts no one. And I’m still surprised they figured out the Holmes reference.
I
wouldn’t have had any idea what Lou was talking about.”

Lou, of course, was the staff member who’d made the call. And the president couldn’t resist gloating. “We couldn’t just phone and tell him where to look. Too simple. It would likely have aroused their suspicions. I wanted Blackstone to lock onto something else rather than asking himself whether the call was genuine.”

“I know all that, George. But what made you think he’d understand?”

“Bucky was once a member of the Tuscaloosa Baker Street Irregulars. No way he could miss it.”

Ray sighed. “Well, you were obviously right. I’ll tell you, I feel a lot better than I did this morning when we came in. I think we got lucky. I wasn’t sure what we’d have done if he hadn’t known what we were talking about. Or, worse, hadn’t bought the story. If he came after us.”

Cunningham didn’t even like to think about it. This was not a good time. He was surrounded by problems. The deteriorating state of public education. The blowback from shutting down large chunks of military spending. Global epidemics. Widespread hunger. Problems with fresh water. Continuing climate deterioration. Still, for one day,
this
day, he could celebrate.

He looked across the office at the ancient VHS unit that had been brought in to play the videotape. The tape itself was now locked in the bottom drawer of his desk, along with the second plate. “He’ll spread the story because he believed it. Because it’ll make him look good. Proves he was right, and we were wrong. That’s all he cares about. He doesn’t give a damn about collapsing civilizations, or whether that knowledge might have had a deleterious effect on the nation. Whether it might have discouraged people already struggling with an apparently endless war, or whether right now it will have a negative effect on a nation still trying to get clear of this god-awful economy.”

“Well, you were right, George. I just didn’t think they’d buy it. The average guy in the street hears that worlds are falling apart everywhere, and he says it’s a shame, but by the way, how’d the Giants make out last night? That’s the way we are. And that’s what I don’t understand. If Nixon was going to make up a story, why didn’t he do something that
would
shake everybody up? Like maybe a warning against an impending alien invasion?”

“Simple enough, Ray. He wanted to scare the Russians into keeping quiet. Alien invaders wouldn’t have accomplished that.”

“I still can’t believe he thought it would work. But I guess it did.”

“I doubt it would have worked with ordinary Russians, who would probably have responded the same way we would. But the leaders bought into it. Hell, Ray, Brezhnev and Kosygin were Communists. Materialists. Not politicians, like Tricky Dick. They’d come to power in a different way, and they apparently didn’t know their own people very well. Anyhow, they wouldn’t have liked the idea that we were on the Moon already, so sure, they had every reason to join in the cover-up. And nothing to lose.”

The president stared at the ancient VHS unit.

Nixon had been seated at a desk in front of an open window. Palm trees were visible, and birds sang. Despite the placid environment, he was clearly troubled.

“Mr. President,” he’d said, looking out of the screen, “I hope I haven’t caused any undue difficulty for you, but I was forced to take action.” He picked up a pen and put it back down. “As you may be aware, we learned from probes toward the end of the Johnson administration that there was a structure, a dome, on the far side of the Moon.

“I was informed by President Johnson during a conference in December 1968, during his final weeks in office. At that time, he indicated that he had been uncertain how to respond, that they knew there’d been no Soviet missions to the Moon, and that consequently there was only one explanation for the dome. We’d been visited.

“President Johnson had classified the information on the highest level and set in motion a secret lunar mission to determine the nature of the object. He did not know whether it could be made to work. And he was leaving office. Ultimately it would be my responsibility. Whatever my decision, whether I proceeded with it, or canceled it, he told me, I should feel free to consult with him. He said he would render any assistance he could. And he would support whatever decision I made.”

The former president sat quietly for a moment, looking back over that conversation. “I thought he was kidding. I really thought it was some kind of joke. And he got annoyed. We were alone in the Oval Office and he’d begun by congratulating me on my victory, and telling me how he hoped I’d have better luck than he did with the war. His voice shook when he mentioned that. ‘End it,’ he told me. ‘Doesn’t matter how you do it, but get out of that hellhole.’

“He told me he understood that our views of how the country should work were at odds, but that he hoped I would not oppose the Great Society measures he had taken. Then he told me about the dome.

“I gave the go-ahead order. On January 15, 1969, two of our astronauts landed near the Cassegrain Crater and approached the dome. It wasn’t especially big. About the size of a single-story house. The astronauts, Sidney Myshko and Brian Peters, walked right up to it. We have the videos from the landing stored at the museum, filed under
riverboat KYB
.

“The thing had a door. It looked as if one of them touched a doorbell. I couldn’t tell them apart in their space suits. But they touched something, and the door slid up. Into the dome.” He looked almost dazed.

“It was dark inside. They flashed lights around, and we saw a small table. Otherwise, the place was empty. Not a goddam thing. So they walked over to the table. There was a plaque on it. Silver-colored metal on a dark base. The lighting wasn’t good, and they were right on top of it before I realized there was a message on the plaque. In a strange language.

“And that was all there was. They brought the table and the plaque home. The table is located in a secure storage area at the Presidential Library in Yorba Linda. They don’t know they have it, but its numerical designator is AY775. You already have the plaque in your possession.

“Actually, there will be two plaques in the package. One is in Greek, the other in Aramaic. The Greek plaque was put together by us for the sole purpose of getting the Russians on board. In the end, we didn’t use it. I didn’t think it would work, and it seemed better to tell them the truth. So that’s what we did. When they learned what it was, they got seriously scared. They thought if the word got out, it might destabilize us. The last thing they needed was a destabilized United States. And in all these years, they’ve never said a word.

“The Aramaic plaque, of course, is the one we found. And the message is different.”

Cunningham had a copy of the translation on his desk:

Intelligent life is rare. When we discovered your cities, your boats, your dwellings, we wanted to join with you in mutual celebration. Our first action was to send an ambassador. But you killed him. Without provocation. Our judgment was perhaps hasty. And in error. We should not have trusted you. Nevertheless, we wish you good fortune. By the time you reach this place, if indeed you ever do, we hope you will have changed.

“My translator,” continued Nixon, “informed me that the language dated from about the first century
A.D.
And Aramaic, as you may know, was the language in Israel from about 500
B.C.
to
A.D.
70.” He stopped and waited, as if Cunningham needed a moment to get the point. “If we had released that information, you know the conclusion people would have jumped to. We were already in the midst of a war, and the country was coming apart. The last thing I needed, on top of everything else, was to have a major religious battle break out. So I kept it quiet. NASA sent a second mission to destroy the dome, to blow it apart and bury it.

“If the truth hasn’t already come out, Mr. President, I urge you to restrain it as best you can. For the good of the nation.”

Cunningham had stopped it there.

“It was the right move,” said Ray.

“I agree.”

Ray was trying to appear reassuring, but Cunningham knew him too well. He was getting ready to attempt a sale. “Times have changed,” he said.

“I suppose. We don’t have a war on our hands.”

“We have an obligation to be honest with the nation.”

“No.”

“You won’t even consider it?”

“No. I won’t.”

“George, this is the scientific discovery of the age. You can’t continue to hide this.”

“Let it go, Ray.”

“But why not do it? You wouldn’t have to take a stand. Just release the data. People will draw their own conclusions about it. If organized religion takes a hit, so be it. It causes half the problems in the world, anyhow.”

“And maybe eases the other half. Look, Ray, life can be a tough ride. For a lot of people, their religion is all they have to hang on to. We’re not going to undermine that.”

“It’s going to happen eventually. You’ve seen the numbers.”

“Fine. Whatever happens, happens. First off, we don’t know the truth. Secondly, religion may or may not disappear from people’s lives. But if it does, I won’t be party to it.”

“Okay. You’re the president.”

“None of this gets beyond this office. Right?”

“Of course not. I won’t say anything. But be aware that the people at the Nixon Museum will almost certainly let the press know you got a package from Mr. Nixon. And that it had something to do—”

“If we have to take some heat, we will.” Cunningham restarted the program.

Nixon straightened his shoulders. “One final point I’d like to make, Mr. President. When the plaque first came into my hands, I had to find someone to translate. We weren’t even sure what the language was. John—John Ehrlichman—had a friend who was a professor at George Washington University. I forget his name. But he did the translation for us.

“He never knew how we’d acquired the plate. Or at least, he didn’t unless John told him. But I doubt very much that happened.” He thought about it. Shook his head. “No. No chance. In any event he—the professor—assured us that none of what he’d seen would go any further. But we didn’t realize he’d made notes. Kept them, despite his assurances no written record would be made.

“We put the plate away, intending it should never see the light of day. I’d thought about destroying it, but that seemed inappropriate.” He stopped, and he seemed focused on another time. Another place.

“In June 1972, I got a call from John. The professor had informed him that he’d lost materials relating to the translation. Worse, he’d been socializing with the Democrats. With Larry O’Brien, and he thought he’d left the briefcase in his office. At the Watergate. O’Brien claimed he knew nothing about it.

“I have no idea who I may be speaking to, or how long it has been since I left the stage. It may be twenty years. It may be centuries. But I want to make the statement to you that I could never make to the American people: The reason for the break-in had nothing to do with politics. It was for the benefit of the nation. For that reason and no other.

“I should add that O’Brien, it turned out, did not have the briefcase. The idiot professor had left it in the hotel restaurant. But the guys who went in, and paid the price, never said anything. They never mentioned the professor’s notes.” He looked out at Cunningham. “I owe them. The country owes them.”

And the screen went blank.

—

Ray sat back in his chair. “So where do we go from here, George?”

“We’ve arrived at the last act, Ray. It’s over. Blackstone will give the voters an answer. He knows we handed it to him. He won’t be able to figure out why, but he’s indebted to us, and he knows it. So I don’t think we’ll take too much heat from him.” Cunningham got up and walked over to the window. The sky was heavy with clouds. No Moon that night. “We’ll announce tomorrow that Blackstone probably has it right. The people from the museum will think that’s what was in the package. And it’s done.”

“Well, I hope you’re right.” Ray extended his right hand. “Congratulations, Mr. President.”

—

The president was going over legislation that had just arrived for his signature when Kim called him. “Mr. President,” she said, “Mr. Blackstone is on the line. I don’t know how he got this number, but—”

“It’s okay, Kim. Have him hold for three minutes, then put him through.”

Cunningham went back to reading a bill to upgrade the national parks. Or, perhaps more accurately, trying to read it. He was uneasy about the call. And he was looking at his watch when the phone began blinking again. He pressed the button and Blackstone’s image appeared on-screen. “Mr. President,” he said. “We should talk.”