The Cassandra Project (7 page)

“It makes sense. Obviously, it was either from natural causes or some problem they could pinpoint and fix, because the other Apollo missions all took off on schedule. But by then, they’d lied for a couple of months about the death, and they didn’t want the publicity that would accrue if it came out.” “Why don’t you call the White House and ask?” asked Brent. “I know you’re on speaking terms with the president.” “All billionaires and religious leaders are always on speaking terms with any president,” said Bucky. “But what can I do? Get him on Skype or the vidphone and ask him why he’s lying to the American public? Besides, he may not even know about this. As far as I can tell, it’s pretty well confined to NASA.” “If it’s anything affecting future Moon flights, he must know about it, or why aren’t we going back?” asked Gloria. “Hell, they
all
knew about it—Carter, Reagan, Clinton, the Bushes, Obama, all of them. They all gave lip service to the space program, then did everything they could to emasculate it.” Bucky shook his head. “You’re looking at it the wrong way. They were politicians, not scientists—even Carter. The only thing the Moon meant to them was the prestige of reaching it before Russia did. Well, we reached it—and then the only thing it meant to them was billions of dollars that they’d rather spend on their own programs. They were probably thrilled when private industry started doing suborbital flights a decade ago. It meant the last pressure was off them to do it. NASA’s moribund; it just doesn’t know it yet.” “Then why are
we
going into space?” asked Brent.

“Because we don’t give any more of a damn about science than
they
did. They went for prestige; we’re going for profit.” “From the Moon?” asked Brent, frowning.

“From the Moon, and the asteroids, and the moons of Jupiter and Saturn. It won’t happen this year, or this decade, but we can see the money in orbit up there, so we won’t pack up and stay at home the way the government did after it beat the Russians.” Suddenly Brent grinned. “You think there are any Moon men up there?” “Not yet,” said Bucky. “Ask me again in a few months.” He got to his feet. “Is anyone hungry?” “It’s awfully early,” said Gloria.

“That isn’t what I asked.”

“If you want to wait for Ed to contact you, we can have room service feed us right here,” suggested Gloria. “They have a splendid menu.” “It’ll take him at least another ninety minutes to get to Baltimore, even on my private jet. and he’ll probably have to negotiate the bribe for another half hour, maybe more. I could do with a walk, and a nice Greek meal—saganaki, dolmades, pastitsio, and top it off with some baklava for dessert.” “I could go for that,” acknowledged Gloria.

“Let’s choose a joint with belly dancers,” suggested Brent.

“Let’s choose one with the best menu, and if they have belly dancers, so much the better for you,” said Gloria.

“Fair enough.” Brent turned to Bucky. “Boss, if we’re gonna walk, or even take a cab . . .” “I know,” said Bucky with an unhappy sigh. “The shaggy black wig, the shades, and the cane.” “Why let ’em know that they’re looking at a billion dollars on the hoof?” “It’s been a dozen years since I was worth
a
billion,” said Bucky, heading off to the closet and bringing out his wig, his sunglasses, his hat, his light overcoat, and his cane. “Am I properly generic now?” he asked a moment later.

“You look like the local dope peddler and his muscle,” said Gloria, as he walked over and stood next to Brent.

“Okay, let’s go sell some crack and have dinner,” said Bucky, leading them to the door.

It was a sumptuous meal, and there
were
belly dancers. They spent two hours in the restaurant and, against Brent’s wishes, walked back to the hotel rather than take a cab.

When they got there, they found an urgent message to contact Ed Camden. A moment later, his image was on the screen, staring at his employer.

“What’s up?” asked Bucky.

“You’re not going to believe this,” said Camden, a troubled expression on his face.

“Try me.”

Camden held a battered leather book up to the camera. “This is Aaron Walker’s diary. It cost you $300,000.” “I assume from your urgent message that it was worth it?”

“You underpaid.”

“Oh?”

Camden nodded. “Yeah.”

“Okay, what did my three hundred grand buy me?”

“Let me read you an entry from January 19, 1979.”

“Go ahead.”

Camden turned to the proper page.
“‘Ten years and nobody’s even hinted at it. I can’t believe Washington could keep a secret for so long.’”

“That’s it?”

Camden shook his head. “Here’s December 1986.
‘It’s almost seventeen years, and still not a word of it. I must be one of the few guys left who knows the truth.’
” Camden turned to another page. “And January 19, 1988:
‘Another year of silence. Just amazing.’
” “Let me guess,” said Bucky. “January 19 is the anniversary of when the Myshko flight took off?” Camden shook his head and smiled. “Almost.”

“Son of a bitch!” exclaimed Bucky. “It’s the anniversary of when it would have landed!” “Give the man a cigar,” said Camden.

Jane Alcott lived with her husband and four kids in Sparrows Point, Maryland, outside Baltimore. They occupied a two-story white frame house with a large front yard in a neighborhood filled with trees. They were within a few blocks of Chesapeake Bay, the kind of place Jerry would have liked to settle down in if he’d had a family. He arrived in the early evening, as the sun was slipping below the horizon, and couldn’t help thinking how much easier his life might have been had he been living out here doing public relations for one of the TV channels and living with Mandy Edwards, the only woman he’d ever really cared about. But she was a long time ago.

He still thought about her when life got quiet. He was over her, finally. Or at least that’s what he told himself. Two years ago, she’d earned a Ph.D. in astrophysics. Now she worked for NASA in Houston. She was one of the reasons he’d joined NASA, with the possibility their paths might cross. In any case, she knew how high he’d climbed. Undoubtedly, she saw him now and then doing a press conference, or on the Agency’s TV channel. He liked to think she regretted tossing him aside.

Now, in a rented car and under a bright moon, he pushed her out of his mind as he cruised down F Street and turned south onto Ninth. He passed more trees and sculpted lawns and broad driveways. The house numbers were hard to see in the dark, but Alcott had described the house, red brick with green shutters and two white cars in the driveway. The post light was on. He spotted it, parked, and looked around to assure himself there were no reporters in the area. Then he climbed slowly out of the car and started up the walk. A dog was barking somewhere, and a couple of kids next door were taking turns missing long shots at a basketball hoop mounted over the driveway. Basketball, he thought, was never really out of season. A cool breeze blew in off the Bay. He took a deep breath, thought again how the smart thing to do would be to go home and forget the whole thing. No matter how this played out, he was going to become a target for everybody’s jokes. A comic figure representing an agency that belonged to the past.

He climbed a set of wooden steps onto the front deck. Lights blinked on, and the door opened before he reached it. A middle-aged woman, with dark hair and a nervous smile, looked out at him. “Mr. Culpepper?” “Yes, ma’am.” He could hear excited kids and sound effects inside. A war game in progress.

“Come in, please.” She opened the door wide. The combat was coming from another room. “I hope you don’t mind the noise.” “Not at all,” Jerry said, walking into a tastefully decorated living room. A pair of vases filled with flowers stood on a table near the window, framed by lush, raven-colored drapes. The furniture was leather. Pictures of family members, mostly children, dominated the walls. A photo of Aaron Walker, in a commander’s uniform, occupied a spot between the flowers.

She indicated a chair. “Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Culpepper. Can I get you something to drink?” “No,” he said. “Thank you very much. And my name’s Jerry.”

“I know. I’ve seen you on TV.” She sat down on the sofa. “I’m Jane.” “Pleasure to meet you, Jane.”

“You’ve seen the journal, right?”

“Yes, I have.”

“I don’t think I have anything to add. I was surprised by the entry. Jolted, as a matter of fact.” “I understand you’d never really looked through it before?”

“No, sir. Umm, Jerry. I’ve had the journal since my father died. Never really opened it until recently. He was living with us. Here. He had a room in back. A whole wing of the house, in fact.” “You must have been very proud of him, Jane.”

“Oh, yes. He was a remarkable man. I miss him.” Her eyes fluttered. “You would have liked him.” “I’m sure I would.” He commented on how attractive the home was, and the neighborhood, then got to the point: “Do you have any idea what he meant by that passage?” She leaned back and shook her head. She was an attractive woman though there was a sadness in her eyes. A sense, perhaps, that something incredible had happened in her father’s life, and she’d somehow contrived to miss it. “No. I came across it about a year ago. We were housecleaning, trying to make some room, and we started throwing a lot of stuff out. And we discovered the journal. Actually, I’d known that he kept one because I’d seen him sometimes writing in it at night, but I’d forgotten. Then I opened a box, and there it was. Along with some of his books.

“I sat down and looked through it. But I didn’t see much that interested me. Most of it was a record of visits with friends and family members. He’d been keeping it ever since college. I went back and read the sections about Mom, how he’d first been attracted to her, and all that. And some of the stuff about his Navy days.” “Yes,” I said. “He was a naval pilot.”

She smiled. “A naval
aviator
, Jerry. Those guys are something else. They get insulted if you call them pilots.” The kids’ voices were getting louder. She got up, excused herself, and went in to make peace. While she was gone, Jerry looked more closely at some of the photos. In one, Jane posed with a man in a dark suit. Her husband, presumably. Something about him suggested that he was a lawyer, but it turned out he was a political consultant. The kids were between six and twelve, two of each gender. It was young male voices creating the nearby clamor.

Then they went quiet, and two boys came out into the living room, looking sheepish. Jane introduced them. They seemed subdued at that point. She’d probably told them that Jerry was directing the next Moon shot or some such thing.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “They get carried away sometimes.”

They went back to their game, and Jane reclaimed her seat. “Where were we, Jerry?” Her brow wrinkled, and she looked down at the rug. “Oh, yes, courting my mom, and some of the Navy stuff—he got shot down in Vietnam. Made it back out to sea, fortunately, before he had to bail out. He got picked up by a destroyer.” She sighed. “A month later, he was back at it.” “Did you read about his time as an astronaut, Jane?”

“Yes. Though only after that business about Sidney Myshko came out. I’d never really looked at it before that. I knew when he came back from the Moon mission that they’d gone down in the ocean, of course. He was picked up by a destroyer again. But until recently, I wasn’t much interested in looking at the NASA entries because he always seemed kind of disappointed that he didn’t get to do one of the landings. On the Moon. And I—just—didn’t need any more of that.” “He was depressed by it?”

“Well, I wasn’t born yet when it happened. In later years, it wasn’t a subject he wanted to talk about. I used to ask him what it had been like, flying to the Moon, but he always changed the subject. So after a while, I just let it go.” “Why’d you decide to send it to the newspaper, Jane?”

She blushed. “
You
were responsible for that. I saw you on the news. And that reporter started asking about the Myshko mission, whether they’d landed or not. Not that I thought anything like that had happened, but I remembered that remark. About how he had gone strolling on the lunar surface. Then I saw how little he had to say in the journal itself about the flight. The ball-game entry was fifty years after that mission.” “That would have been nice, wouldn’t it? Had he been in Apollo XI?” “Oh, sure, Jerry. He would have loved to be on the flight with Neil Armstrong. To actually get a chance to walk on the Moon. But—” She shrugged. “It didn’t happen. At least, I think it didn’t happen.” “So what do you think the journal entry was about?”

“I have no idea. I was hoping you might be able to tell
me
.” Jerry had no answer.

She leaned forward in her chair. “Do you think it’s possible? That he actually landed on the Moon?” “Jane, I don’t think it happened. But at this point, I’m not sure of anything.” “I probably shouldn’t have called
The Sun
about that ballpark entry. I didn’t stop to think.” “You wanted it to be true?”

Her lips widened into a smile. “Yes. I’d love to find out that it actually happened. Dad would have been unhappy with me, wouldn’t have approved of my going to the newspaper, but I couldn’t see that it would do any harm.” “I agree.”

“I didn’t create a problem, did I? By calling the paper?”

“I don’t think we need worry about that.”

She looked over at her father’s photograph. “I never knew him to lie. And he wasn’t the kind of man who’d get carried away by his imagination. I really wish he were here today. I’d like to ask him to explain it.” —Jerry never learned how Mary found out about his visit to Sparrows Point. “But I want us to stay out of it, Jerry. Is that clear?” She was parked behind her desk, pushed back in her chair, her eyes full of anger.

Jerry didn’t do well in confrontations with superiors. With anybody, for that matter. He was inclined to be polite and agreeable. “I’ve been careful,” he said.

“You mean the reporter who gave you the story wasn’t the one who told you where the daughter lived?” “Well, yes. In fact he was.”

“So the press knows we’re trying to find out what this woman knows, right?” “Well, Ralph knows.”

“And Ralph’s employer is—?”

“Okay. So I guess I screwed up.”

“Jerry, they haven’t gone with the story yet. But you can be sure your buddy would like to know why we’re interested.” “I told him it was a false alarm.”

“Of course you did. And that’s why you wanted to talk to the daughter, right?” She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together. “You might as well have told him we’re doing a cover-up. That something really
did
happen.” Jerry tried to look like a guy who’d been caught in an impossible situation. “
He
called
me
. I didn’t go to him.” “What difference does it make?”

“All right.”

“Don’t touch it again, Jerry. You understand me? If anything else comes up, check with me. I’ll handle it.” —Staying out of it might not be easy. Jerry got a call that afternoon from a woman who identified herself as Cary Blankenship. Cary was in her eighties, but she still radiated energy. She was seated in a lawn chair in front of a potted tree. “I used to work for NASA,” she said. “I was only a technician. I did pretty routine stuff. But I remember something that always seemed odd.” “What was that, Cary?”

“Just before the Moon flights, the landings, they had something called the Cassandra Project. Don’t know what it was. It was a big secret. Very hush-hush.” “Did you ever find out what it was about?”

“No. In fact, we weren’t even supposed to know there was such a thing.” “So why’s that odd?”

“Because we didn’t normally do secret stuff. I mean, the equipment, sure. A lot of that was classified. But missions? That just didn’t happen. We were pretty public. Some of the technology was classified, but having a project that nobody wanted to talk about, that was a first. Well, not quite a first, but it was unusual. Later, when we were involved launching spy satellites and stuff, things changed. But it wasn’t like that in 1969.” “
Cassandra
was a mission?”

“I wouldn’t swear to it, but I sure had that impression.”

—

Jerry ran a search, but no reference to a NASA Cassandra Project showed up. He decided it was of no consequence and had just gone back to work when he got a call from Brian Colson, the host of
The Brian Colson Show
. “Jerry,” he said, “how are you doing?” A chill ran down Jerry’s spine. No way this could be anything other than bad news. “Fine, Brian. What can I do for you?” Colson was a big, intimidating guy. His show was billed as news and opinion, but mostly it consisted of his launching attacks on politicians he didn’t like, or even ones he
did
, or at least claimed to. It was hard to guess why anyone went on his show. But Jerry figured that if you could stand up to Colson, you could win a lot of points with the party bosses and even with the voters. And, of course, you also went on if you had a book to sell. “Jerry, we’re having one of your friends on tonight.” He paused, probably to give Jerry a chance to fill in the name.

Jerry resisted the impulse. “Who’s that, Brian?”

“Ralph D’Angelo. That’s an interesting story about Aaron Walker’s journal.
The Sun
will be going with it tomorrow.” A chill ran down Jerry’s spine. “I can’t see a story there anywhere, Brian.” “You think Walker was just making it up? Maybe drinking or something?” “About what?”

“Come on, Jerry. Do you want me to read you what he says?”

“I don’t know, Brian. He must have been joking. He was probably doing what we all do, making up something he wished had happened.” “Good enough. You want to come on the show tonight and say that?” Turn up on
The Brian Colson Show
tonight and go looking for a new job tomorrow. “It’s not worth the time, Brian. Mine or yours. Not that I wouldn’t enjoy talking about current projects. But this Aaron Walker story—” “No reason we can’t talk about some of the current stuff you’re working on.” “Brian, thanks, but I have to pass. I’m buried at the moment.”

“You know what really rings my bell about this, Jerry?” It was an expression he used all the time on his show. Everything rang his bell. “When he said, ‘Oops, forgot I’m not supposed to say that.’” —Jerry told Mary about the invitation and warned her that
The Sun
would be running the story.

She took it well. “Can’t say I’m surprised,” she said. “Well, you did the right thing. Probably. Staying off the show.” Jerry thought about calling Amos Bartlett, the lone surviving member of Walker’s crew. But an online blogger had already asked him about the mission, about whether they’d gone down to the surface. He’d denied the story. Moreover, if Jerry followed up, it would very likely get back to Mary.

—

He skipped dinner that evening. He wasn’t hungry, and it was just as well. He could stand to lose a pound or two. He retreated to his condo and opened all the windows. It was a cool, pleasant evening, and he needed to hear the distant rumble of the sea. That soothing sound tended to put everything in perspective. He understood quite clearly that Neil Armstrong had been the first man to set foot on the Moon. Everything else was an urban legend. But it was precisely the kind of story the media love to feed on.

He watched the news. Watched an episode of
The Shadow
, a guilty pleasure that allowed him to escape reality for an hour. Then, at eight, he switched over to Colson.