Jason Brent entered the office. “Hi, folks. Anyone try to kill the boss yet?”
“It’s early in the day,” said Bucky. “Have patience.”
“You sticking around here for a while?” asked Brent. “I thought I’d go down and grab something to eat.”
“Be my guest.”
“Until the cafeteria starts charging, that’s what we all are,” answered Brent. He walked back into the corridor and over to the elevator.
“Well,” said Bucky, “what’s on tap for today?”
“Nothing, really,” said Gloria. “You want to inspect the ship?”
“Good God, no! I wouldn’t begin to know what to look for. And I still have to learn the terminology. Can’t be calling a hatch a door.”
“Since you’ve announced that you’re flying to the Moon, don’t you think you should learn it?”
“There’s time,” said Bucky. “Right now, I’m more concerned with why someone stood on the Moon rather than what he called all the gizmos he used to get there.”
“Well, you can always talk to Amos Bartlett.”
He shook his head. “Once they figure out that Sabina’s not a granddaughter or some such, it will have taken them two hours, tops, to find out who she works for, and they’ll have Bartlett locked up tighter than a drum.” He grimaced. “Besides, he told her what he knew. I don’t think I could get any more out of him. Some people are too rich to bribe, some are too stupid, and some, like Bartlett, are too damned close to the grave to be able to use it. No, he’s not the answer.”
“The diary?”
“Been through it three times, all the way back to 1958. I guarantee there’s nothing else there.”
“Is there anyone who knows the truth, do you think?” asked Gloria.
“I know the truth,” Bucky shot back. “Sidney Myshko was the first man to walk on the Moon. I just don’t know why.”
“Who would?”
He shrugged. “If I knew that, I’d have this thing solved by dinnertime.” Suddenly he sat up erect. “All right. If I can’t solve it, maybe I can put some pressure on someone who can.”
“You mean Jerry?”
He shook his head. “I hope Jerry can help. He had to know some things we don’t know for him to walk away from his job.”
“Then who?”
He grinned. “Who’s the one guy who can get things done when he wants to?”
“President Cunningham?”
“You got it in one. Set up a face-to-face with him.”
“Oh, come on, Bucky,” said Gloria. “You can’t just call the White House and get through to the president. Only the presidents of China and Russia can do that.”
“He’ll talk to me,” said Bucky with total self-assurance.
“What makes you think so?”
Bucky grinned. “Tell him I’ve got a conversation with Amos Bartlett on video, and I’ll put it on the Internet in an hour if he won’t talk to me.”
“Would you?” she asked, frowning.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But the point is, Cunningham doesn’t know either. Believe me, he’ll talk.”
And sure enough, five minutes later, the president’s face appeared on Bucky’s screen.
“Good morning, Mr. Blackstone,” said Cunningham.
“Good morning, Mr. President. And you can call me Bucky.”
“All right, then—good morning, Bucky.” A humorless smile. “And you can call me Mr. President. Now what is so vital that our latest astronaut feels compelled to speak to me on such short notice?”
“I thought you might be ready to talk about the Myshko Moon landing.”
“You’ll want to speak to a science-fiction writer about that,” responded Cunningham. “The first man to walk on the Moon was Neil Armstrong. I could recommend any number of history books on the subject.”
“They would be the fiction books, sir,” said Bucky. “I just want to know if I would find them under science fiction, or perhaps espionage?”
“Just what are you suggesting, Bucky?” demanded Cunningham.
“Just this, Mr. President,” said Bucky. “You lost a good man at NASA because he couldn’t stand up there and lie to the public anymore.”
“Who are you referring to?”
“Jerry Culpepper.”
“I know nothing of that.”
“Of course you do,” said Bucky. “You’re a bright, competent man, and you run the country like I run Blackstone Enterprises. Little things—especially important little things—don’t escape your attention. Now, as I was saying, you lost a good man. And NASA and the White House can spin the story any way you like, but the truth is going to come out. I’m in possession of Aaron Walker’s diary, and at least twenty members of my staff plus a member of the press can testify as to what’s in it. Now I’m aware that the FBI can bust in here and try to find it—”
“Your government does not break into private homes and businesses!” snapped Cunningham.
“Damned lucky for you I don’t believe that for a minute, or I wouldn’t vote for you next time around,” said Bucky. “When it’s important enough, you’ll do what you have to do. But I also have a video conversation with Amos Bartlett, and it makes no difference if you steal that, because there are dozens of copies that have been dispersed all over the country, and the day I report that the original has been stolen—which would be a lie; the original is hundreds of miles from here—the others will all be available on the Internet within an hour. Which is why you agreed to speak to me in the first place.”
“Just what is it that you want, Mr. Blackstone?”
“Bucky.”
“What the hell do you want? If anything happened, it happened half a century ago, and I’m as much in the dark as you! I’m not hiding anything, damn it! I never even heard of Sidney Myshko until a month ago!”
Bucky stared at the president’s image for a long minute. Finally, he said: “I believe you, sir. You are as ignorant of what happened as everyone else is. Now I have a question for you: Would you like to become informed?”
Cunningham looked suspiciously into the camera. “What, exactly, are you proposing?”
“I want to give you a copy of the video. I could send it over the Internet, of course, but it’s too easy for pirates to swipe it and disseminate it. There have to be dozens reading, or trying to read, everything that comes and goes from the White House, and any company as big as mine has its share of would-be eavesdroppers as well. But if you will send an authorized member of your staff here to pick it up, I’ll turn it over to him; and then you can see for yourself. And yes, I expect you to have your experts analyze it to make sure it hasn’t been faked or tampered with.”
“If I send a representative, then what?”
“Then I hope you’ll be curious enough to start pulling strings,” said Bucky. “And, surely, you have more strings to pull than I have.”
“That’s it?” said Cunningham. “You just want to pique my curiosity?”
“There’s been a massive cover-up for fifty years,” said Bucky. “We don’t know exactly what happened or why it’s been covered up. Your government—well, the tiny handful of members with any knowledge of this—are still covering it up. Wouldn’t you like to know why? And if it’s no longer important to keep it secret, wouldn’t you like to be the president who pulled it out of a darkened corner and put a light on it?”
Cunningham stared silently at him, as if considering his response.
“I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” continued Bucky. “I’m willing to spend every last penny I have to find out what happened and why. Right now, I’m a billionaire kook who’s making ridiculous claims, but I can already back some of them up, and if I get to the bottom of this while you’re denying everything, the press and the public are going to assume your government has been trying to discredit me out of malevolence rather than ignorance.”
“All right,” said Cunningham at last. “I’ll send someone by with written a
uthorization, signed by me, and I’ll look at your video. But I make no promises.”
“I haven’t asked for any.”
“No, you’ve just made veiled threats,” said Cunningham. “I don’t like you very much, Mr. Blackstone.”
“That’s a shame,” said Bucky with a smile. “I really did vote for you, you know.”
The president broke the connection.
“Well, this has been quite a morning of bribes, entreaties, and threats,” said Gloria. “Isn’t there anyone you’d like to murder before lunch?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
Bucky spent the rest of the morning okaying outlays for the ship’s continuing construction and upgrading, had lunch with some visiting business associates from Japan, and got back to the office in midafternoon. He answered messages from Ed Camden, told Sabina Marinova to be prepared to go on a new assignment on a minute’s notice, and refused interviews with three television stations, four radio stations, and two Internet news services.
He was reading over some financial statements from a small subsidiary in Nepal when his computer beeped and told him that he had a message waiting. He ordered the machine to play it.
Instantly, Jerry Culpepper’s haggard face appeared, looking at if he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in a week.
“Hi, Bucky,” it said. “I got your message. If there are no crouching dragons or hidden tigers, I’ll do what I can.”
17
The president had taken the call from Blackstone at Camp David, where he and Lyra were, finally, enjoying a relatively quiet weekend. Usually, when Cunningham went to the presidential retreat, Ray Chambers manned the guns at the White House. But the chief of staff’s wife, Paula, had grown increasingly close to the First Lady, so this time they’d all gone to Maryland.
Paula had been a literature professor at Ohio State. It was where she’d met Ray, when both were graduate students. Ray claimed she’d fallen in love with him on that first day and he’d eventually given in and agreed to a marriage. Paula, of course, had a different story. It wasn’t hard to see where the truth lay.
Lyra was especially taken with her. “She is,” she told her husband, “probably the smartest person anywhere near the White House.” And, when he’d frowned, she’d added, “Except you, dear, of course.”
Both women had been kept up to speed on the Moon flap, and all four were eagerly awaiting the arrival of Blackstone’s video.
—
The delivery hadn’t taken long. Less than three hours after the phone conversation, the White House messenger had been helicoptered in. They sat down in the main lodge, and Lyra opened the package, removed the video, and inserted it into the drive. There was no preamble, no explanatory comment by Blackstone, simply the date and time of the recording, seven days earlier, played against the sterile backdrop of a hospital corridor. Then they were looking at an old man propped up against three pillows in a bed. Ray checked the image against a photo. “It’s Bartlett,” he said.
Then a woman’s voice: “I’m very glad you agreed to see me, Mr. Bartlett.”
Bartlett stared up over the top of the screen. “He doesn’t know he’s being recorded,” said Paula.
After that they fell silent while Bartlett rambled through his conversation with his unseen interrogator.
“My bet is even the Congress doesn’t know about this. Probably just the president, and maybe two or three others, tops.” His voice trembled.
Ray glanced across at the president, shook his head, and looked away.
“Who sent you here, really?” Bartlett asked.
“Mr. Blackstone.”
“How do I know you’re not working for The New York Times?”
When it was over, and they’d listened to the interviewer, Sabina Somebody, explain how she’d been sent for a cigarette, then locked out of Bartlett’s room, they simply sat staring at one another. “Look,” said Lyra finally, “this guy’s probably certifiable. He thinks The New York Times has an army.”
Ray agreed. “You ask me, George, Blackstone’s got nothing.”
“If this recording shows up in the media,” said Paula, “it will convince everybody that something did happen during the mission. It can’t be read any other way, except that Lyra’s right, and he’s deranged. But that perspective will get no traction unless you can do a second interview and demonstrate he’s out of his mind. Do that, of course, and the country will end up hating you.” She looked squarely at Cunningham.
“I agree,” said the president. “We need to send somebody to talk to him. Find out what we’re dealing with.”
“Not a good idea,” said Ray. “Too much is at risk. If we’re seen taking this seriously, and it turns out to be as crazy as it seems, we’ll be permanently connected with it. I suggest we tell the media we’d be happy to see Mr. Blackstone reveal whatever factual information he might have. In the meantime, the White House has more important things to do. And we keep our hands off it.”
Cunningham shook his head. “If something really did happen during the Moon flights,” he said, “I’d like very much to know about it.”
“George, we’ve already talked to everybody who might have known something. They’re laughing at us.”
“We haven’t asked everybody. Paula’s right.”
“George, please, stay clear of Bartlett. If it gets out—”
“Make it happen, Ray.”
—
Three hours later, they were on their way back to the capital in Marine One. Lyra and Paula sat talking quietly. Ray was reading through a Defense Department report. Cunningham stared out at the mountains, listening to the thrum of the blades. In the distance he could see a pickup moving along a narrow road.
The Moon, he knew, would be full that night. But he would have been happy if it never rose again.
18
“Okay,” said Ray. “I’ve sent Weinstein to talk to him, but I still think it’s a mistake.” He was not happy. “George, we can still back away. If you pursue this thing, it’s going to come back to haunt you. I can see the cartoons now. You’ll be running around the Moon with a flashlight peeking into craters. ‘Hello, anybody there?’”
Cunningham stared across the Oval Office at the pictures of his old friend Ruby O’Brien and himself standing outside an Iraqi schoolhouse, surrounded by kids. They were both in uniform. Ruby had died a few years later in an Afghan helicopter crash. Cunningham knew what it meant to be in combat, and those horrendous years in the Middle East had left him scarred. “So you’re saying there’s no chance it could have happened.”
“What I’m saying is to just stay away from it. If it turns out that there was some kind of plot, you can congratulate Blackstone and give him a medal. If it goes the other way, which it almost certainly will, you’ll be clear.”
“I’ve been trying to do that, Ray. Stay clear. Ever since Culpepper started all this. But it keeps getting worse.”
“Just ride it out.”
“I don’t see how we can do that.”
“George, we’re talking about a very old man. And yes, maybe he has lost his grip on reality. That’s a much more likely event than secret Moon landings. I mean, look, this guy is very likely frustrated because he came so close but didn’t get a chance to go down to the surface. So what happens? It eats at him for a lifetime. After a while, he invents his own reality. Let’s just not get in any deeper. And by the way, you might have the Army tighten security a bit so nobody else can get to him. Do that, and in a few months, when Blackstone makes his flight and doesn’t find a damned thing, the whole business will collapse. and everybody will be laughing at him. You want to be sure you’re on the right side of this. George, let the voters think you’re taking it seriously, and when it comes apart, your reputation will be gone. And I’m sure you noticed this will all be happening during an election season.”
—
Where the hell was the hidden vault containing secrets to which only the president had access? He’d seen it
in the movies any number of times. It contained the papers concerning the truth about the Kennedy assassination, what Lincoln had been told about the probable cost of a civil war, what had really brought on the Japanese attack in 1941, and the offstage deal between Kennedy and Khrushchev that had staved off a nuclear exchange during the missile crisis.
There’d been a rumor during the fifties that the Cold War had been a cover. NATO and the USSR were in an arms race, but not against each other. The arsenals were being assembled for use against invading aliens. Yes, they were on their way. The nuclear standoff between East and West had been intended to prevent panic while everybody got ready to present a united front.
Cunningham smiled. Good way to keep everyone calm. He tried to imagine what it had been like to live under the imminent threat of hydrogen bombs arriving at any time.
And then there’d been the Philadelphia Experiment.
So why wasn’t there a provision to pass vital information from one president to another?
“Because,” said Ray, “every president leaves office with stuff he hopes people will forget. Lyndon Johnson and George W. Bush got us into pointless wars. You think they want to explain how it happened?”
Ray Chambers was a tall, quiet guy. Glasses, thin hair, nervous smile, always carrying an umbrella. Cunningham had found him difficult to take seriously at first. He was virtually unknown to the public in an age when anyone affiliated with the president was subject to scrutiny. Even the White House chef. But Ray had somehow managed to remain invisible. It was one of several reasons the president liked him. Another was his supreme political instincts. Ray had, incredibly, remained behind the scenes while directing the campaign that had brought Cunningham an unexpected nomination, then a victory against the charismatic Laura Hopkins, whose early poll numbers had been overwhelming.
—
Cunningham had not experienced an easy three years in the Oval Office. There’d been continuing problems in the Middle East as angry mobs overthrew dictators only to give themselves over to lunatics who were even worse than the guys they replaced. The United States was still plagued by debt. Unemployment was down, but not nearly enough. Energy costs had created a climate of ongoing inflation. The world had finally been forced to face the reality of a population growth that was outrunning resources. And oceans were rising as the poles melted.
The Cassandra Project Page 18
