—
The Myshko mission had lifted off January 11, 1969, and returned January 21. Their objective had been to test various equipment and take pictures. The operation did not include sending a lunar module, manned or otherwise, to the lunar surface.
We are in the LEM. Ready to go. You couldn’t really mistake the meaning. But it had to be a joke. Myshko no doubt grinning in the cabin, and Frank Kirby, the CAPCOM, getting a good laugh on the ground.
It was a gag they’d shared. Nothing more than that. Couldn’t be anything more.
Except that Captain Harkins believed he’d seen a couple of rocks.
—
After the comment about the lander, there’d been no more exchanges for about forty minutes, until the ship emerged from behind the Moon, and transmissions became possible once more. Then they’d talked about position and course and life-support status and fuel usage. No further mention of the LEM.
In less than an hour, it was back behind the Moon. When it emerged a second time, they returned to exchanging routine data. Everything was working fine.
But there was a different voice speaking from the ship.
The new voice spoke with Kirby. It was all routine stuff. Position. Calibration of something or other. Fuel levels. Jerry did not hear the original voice as the vehicle moved across the lunar face. Then it slipped behind the Moon again. He moved ahead until it was back in the visible sky. Still the new voice. Ditto on the next pass. And on the next.
He checked the accompanying data, which informed him that the second speaker had been Brian Peters, the command module pilot. He was the guy who, in an actual landing, would stay behind while the commander and the LEM pilot went down to the surface.
It continued that way for twenty-seven orbits. Peters’s voice was the only one on the circuit. Peters reporting all was well, keeping Mission Control updated on life-support status, occasionally commenting on how beautiful the home world was.
Then, without warning, almost fifty hours after he’d last been heard from, Myshko was back. “Houston, Crash thinks he may have spotted some ice in the north,” he said, “but it’s probably just a reflection. Reaction control hasn’t been what we’d expected, but we’ll give you details when we get home. We’ve also got a busted strut. Other than that, we’re good.”
Myshko did most of the talking on the way back, as he had on the flight out. “Crash” was Louie Able, the LEM pilot. He apparently never got near the onboard comm system.
—
Barbara came in to say good night. She was a good-looking brunette, mother of two boys, six and seven, both of whom had told Jerry they wanted to be astronauts so they could go to Mars one day.
Jerry had never married. Never found the time, really. Or maybe it was that the one woman for whom he would have been willing to give up his freedom had dumped him. He’d never really gotten over that. Consequently, he didn’t allow himself to get serious about anyone. But there were evenings—and this was one of them—when he’d have liked to have someone to go home to. Someone special.
He lived in a third-floor condo north of Titusville off Route 1 near the Brevard Community College. On restless nights, he tended to work late. There were always people wandering around at the Space Center, the dedicated types he’d felt sympathy for when he’d first arrived, people who seemed to have no lives outside the Agency. Somehow, through a process he didn’t understand, he’d become one of them.
So he strolled through the building that evening, talking to technicians who were trying to solve this or that problem because they claimed they couldn’t sleep with it hanging over their heads. Or with security people. Or with accountants working late.
A tour group was wandering through the new Hall of Fame. There were about twenty of them, led by one of the guides, a young woman. She was talking about Gus Grissom, Roger Chaffee, and Ed White. It sent a chill through him, reminding him of the sacrifices NASA’s men and women had been willing to make. He was feeling some regret that he hadn’t accepted Blackstone’s offer. And that realization, coming while he walked through a place dedicated to NASA’s heroes, induced a sense of guilt.
Maybe he’d been taken over by the mission, and maybe that was what deserved his loyalty, rather than the Agency.
Funny how your footsteps have a louder echo at night.
—
Jerry would have liked to talk with one of the astronauts on the Myshko flight, but its commander and Brian Peters had both been dead more than a decade. Myshko had succumbed to cancer just after the turn of the century, and Peters, a few years later, had lost a battle with clogged arteries.
Louie Able had died four months ago, ironically, in a plane crash. He’d been eighty-six.
But Frank Kirby, the CAPCOM, was still around.
The CAPCOM, or capsule communicator, was the principal ground connection with an in-flight mission. An astronaut was usually selected for the assignment, on the assumption that no one was better qualified to handle a problem in space than somebody who’d been there.
Jerry had met Kirby about a year ago, when he’d sponsored a visit to NASA by a group of elementary-school students from Orlando, where he lived. It had been no more than an introduction, and Jerry had carried away no memory of the man save that he’d seemed happy surrounded by the kids. Kirby had been retired more than twenty years, but he’d apparently stayed active in the community. He was a member of the Friends of the Library, he’d led an effort to improve recreational facilities for children throughout the city, he’d been involved in a campaign to promote safety for the blind by upgrading traffic-light technology. And he was a volunteer at a shelter for battered women.
When, the following morning, Jerry mentioned his name to Mary, she said yes, that she’d had a chance to talk with him when he’d been at the Space Center. “He’s a decent guy,” she said. “But I hope you’re not leading up to what I think you are.”
“It would be interesting,” Jerry said, “just to sit down and talk with him. Hear what he has to say.”
“I think,” she said, “it would be a good idea to leave it alone. You show up out there, and he’ll know exactly what you’re after. If there was anything going on, I don’t think he’s likely to open up to a guy who just appears on his doorstep. Let it go, Jerry.”
But Jerry wasn’t going to be put off that easily. “I was going to suggest,” he said, “that we bring him here. Give him an award of some kind. It would be a very nice public-relations move. In fact, it’s something we should have done years ago. We’d get a lot of good publicity by recognizing the community work of someone connected with NASA. We could bring him in for an award luncheon, give him a plaque, and it would cost nothing. This is a difficult time for us, Mary, and it would remind the public of the kind of people we have working here.”
They were in her office. The blinds were pulled against a bright sun. Mary sat for a moment without moving, then literally snickered at him. “Jerry, do you think Kirby would be so dumb that he wouldn’t know what it was all about?”
“Well, you’d be surprised what people will buy into when you tell them stuff they want to hear. No, I think we’d have no trouble getting away with it.”
“Okay, let’s say this guy, who used to be a Navy pilot, who was one of our astronauts, doesn’t have a brain in his head. He comes up here to accept an award. Do you think he might figure it out when you start asking him about Myshko?”
“I’ll be careful. I can manage it so he brings up the topic.”
She clearly did not approve of the idea. “Jerry, may I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Are you saying that you think Myshko might actually have landed on the Moon? And then, for reasons unknown, they kept it quiet? Is that your theory?”
“Of course not. But something happened.”
“What? What could possibly have happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“If they landed, if they actually went down, what possibl
e reason could they have had for covering it up?”
Jerry started thinking again about Blackstone. Maybe he should reconsider. Maybe he should jump over to Bucky’s outfit. It would be easier if Blackstone himself weren’t so despicable. “Maybe they were embarrassed that Myshko took things into his own hands. It would have been a public humiliation.”
She shook her head. “Preposterous. They’d have been embarrassed, yes. But landing somebody on the Moon would have far outweighed that.”
“What’s wrong with giving ourselves a chance to find out? You want to spend the rest of your life wondering whether, maybe, something did happen?”
She took a deep breath. Put her tongue in the side of her cheek. “All right,” she said, “set it up. But, Jerry—”
“Yes?”
“Don’t do anything to embarrass us.”
—
The first task was to find a name for the award. Jerry spent several days googling NASA personnel, active and retired, looking for someone who had made a serious contribution to the public welfare. Mary suggested he limit the search to astronauts, but he couldn’t see any reason to do that. Aside from those who had landed on the Moon, or those who had died in the performance of their duties, no one else, not even among the remaining astronauts, was familiar to the public. The reality was that the public had never shown any interest in flights that didn’t get beyond Earth orbit.
He considered naming the award for Kirby, but that would have been too obvious.
Then he found Harry Eastman, the perfect pick. Harry was a retired computer expert who’d spent thirty years with the Agency while simultaneously doing yeoman work for disabled children in Texas. Harry had set up a foundation to raise public awareness of the issue. He’d brought in film and sports celebrities and had accompanied them when they visited hospitals and special needs centers to talk to the kids, shake their hands, and give out souvenirs. The Eastman Foundation became a major fund-raiser for eight or nine charitable organizations. Jerry also liked the name: The Eastman Award had a ring of elegance.
He called Eastman and told him how much he admired what he’d been doing. “NASA would like to promote this kind of work, Harry,” he said. “We’d like you to support an annual prize, the Eastman Prize, to someone connected with us. For outstanding contributions to special needs kids. Or battered women. Whatever fits. “
“I’d be honored,” Harry said, speaking from Houston, “but the foundation doesn’t really have money to spare. How much would it cost?”
“Just the price of the plaque, Harry. In other words, zero.”
“That’s very kind of you, Jerry.”
“Well, I wouldn’t kid you that we’re being entirely selfless. We expect to get good publicity out of it. And we’ve a few people who’ve been doing the kind of work you have. Not on your scale, but—”
“Let’s make it happen,” he said.
“Excellent. We’ll want you to come in for the first presentation. On our dime, of course.”
Harry laughed. He was lean, with gray hair and the kind of narrow, introspective features Jerry associated with people who’d been through painful experiences and hadn’t quite gotten past them. He wondered how all the time Eastman had spent with damaged kids had affected him. “I’ll be there. When’s it happening?”
—
Jerry asked his deputy, Vanessa Aguilera, to make the call to Kirby. Best was to keep his distance from the project and not let Kirby know he was involved. “Tell him,” he said, “that we wanted to do something special during the opening weeks of the Hall of Fame. And Mary suggested recognizing people associated with the Agency who’ve been doing public service. Something not having to do with space technology. So we came up with the Eastman Award.”
Vanessa was gone about ten minutes, then came back to tell him that Kirby had accepted. “He was excited,” she said.
“Excellent,” said Jerry.
Vanessa had soft brown hair and large blue eyes. She loved her job and was worried, like everyone else, that the organization was going under. It’s nice, she was fond of saying, to be doing work that matters. If the Agency shut down, when it shut down, she didn’t want to land eventually with a lumber company or in an Amtrak office doing accounting or answering phones. “He doesn’t look well, though,” she said.
“How do you mean?”
“Well, he’s pretty old. He’s in a wheelchair, and he was having a hard time breathing.”
“I’m sorry to hear it. Sounds as if he’s gone downhill since last year.”
“He commented that it seems to be a last-minute arrangement.”
Damn. That meant he suspected what was behind the award. Jerry was momentarily surprised that he’d agreed to come if he’d figured it out already. But then Vanessa eased his mind: “He thinks you want to get to him before he passes.”
“Oh.” Maybe they’d caught a break.
“He seems like a nice guy,” she added.
—
The first Harry Eastman Award would be made at the new Hall of Fame, on the last Thursday of the month, which was three weeks away. Jerry handed most of the organizing details over to Vanessa, issued special invitations to people who’d played a major role in NASA’s activities over the years, invited the media, and put together some appropriate remarks for Mary.
He settled back into his normal routine. He oversaw his blog, which was usually written by an intern; contributed to the NASA online presence; coordinated speaking engagements for the Agency’s representatives; made appearances at the University of Georgia and at the University of Central Florida in Orlando.
The LEM story turned into a two-day gag line. Fortunately, it had no traction. Nobody believed there was anything to it. How could there be? Even Warren Cole, when he came by on an unrelated matter, laughed about it. “It’s a pity, though,” he said. “What a story that would have made.”
They were seated in the downstairs dining room. Cole was enjoying a plate of fish and fries, while Jerry, always conscious of his weight, settled for a grilled chicken salad. “You’re really disappointed, aren’t you, Warren?”
“I can’t get disappointed about something I never believed in the first place. Did you find out what they were talking about?”
“Not really. It has to have been a joke.”
“Yeah. Pity. It’s a story I’d have killed for.”
Cole was one of several reporters Jerry used to get stories out. It was always helpful to give someone an exclusive, even if you were planning a formal announcement a day or two later. It was a way of making reporters happy and keeping them on your side.
In this case, though, Jerry had his own motive. “On the subject of Myshko and the LEM,” he said, speaking casually, “did you know who the CAPCOM was on the ground?”
Cole thought about it. Shrugged. “Before my time.” He studied his fish and fries. And shrugged again. “Why, Jerry? Does it matter?”
“No.” Jerry took a large bite of his salad, chewed, and looked out the window. It was a gray, chilly day.
“Then why’d you bring it up?”
“His name’s Frank Kirby.”
“He’s still alive?”
“You got the handout on the Eastman Award?”
“Yes.”
“Kirby will be the recipient that night.”
Cole was prematurely bald, with a ridge of brown hair around his skull. He squeezed his forehead, rubbed his temples. “The story’s dead, Jerry. You’re not trying to bring it up again, are you?”
“Of course not. Though I wonder if he knows how close he came to giving the media the story of a lifetime.”
Cole made a face like a guy with a toothache. “I think I’ll leave it alone.”
Jerry smiled. “I’m in favor of that, Warren.”
“Have you mentioned this to anybody else?”
“No.” Jerry made a science of knowing the media people. Cole would say nothing to anyone. And on the day of the luncheon, he wouldn’t be able to
resist. That would open the door.
When they’d finished eating, Jerry picked up the tab.
3
Morgan Blackstone looked out the window of his office and was well pleased. Off to the left, covering two acres of ground, was Blackstone Enterprises. To the right, thirty floors high and seeming to reach for the sky, was Blackstone Development. Between the two was the least impressive and most important of his businesses, Blackstone Innovations.
It was amazing, he reflected, what one forty-two-inch bosom could lead to. He’d seen the possessor of that bosom on the beach when he was barely twenty years old, talked her into posing nude in his studio (not that he owned one, but he rented a friend’s unused garage), and when no one would pay him what he thought was a fair price for his photos, he decided to publish them himself. He talked some acquaintances into pooling their money—he’d never had trouble raising money—and two months later published the first issue of Suave. He’d shared a dorm room with best-selling hard-boiled mystery writer Chuck Bestler’s son, got him to invest, and he in turn got Bestler to write the lead story. Blackstone had paid Bestler with 5 percent of the magazine, and Bestler, seeing gold in them thar hills, got all his friends in category fiction to contribute, at which point the magazine was a hit, and Blackstone, who barely knew one end of a camera from the other, hired a pair of top photographers who had their own stables of forty-two-inch models. And long before his twenty-second birthday, Morgan Blackstone was a multimillionaire.
He’d never liked his name, so he created a new persona, dressed like a cowboy (but in cowboy duds created on Park Avenue in Manhattan) and signed all his ads and editorials “Bucky.” The name and image stuck, and he was “Morgan” only on contracts and tax returns from then on. By the time he turned twenty-three, Blackstone was bored with the magazine. He knew there were more important challenges out there, and he never wanted to become the eighty-year-old embarrassment Hugh Hefner had become, a withered old man pretending he was thirty-five and assuming that people still cared about his notion of the Good Life.
There were a lot of interesting little wars going on, and a lot of puppet governments received hundreds of millions of dollars from their dark masters (or, in the case of the United States’ clients, their light masters), and he saw no reason why he shouldn’t supply some of their needs. So he put up a million dollars of his own money, then quickly raised another fifteen million (this time as high-interest loans rather than for pieces of his company) and was soon supplying arms to all interested parties.
The Cassandra Project Page 3
