“And now,” he said, “we’re dealing with lunacy on the Moon.”
Ray nodded. “It’s the derivation of the word.”
Cunningham frowned.
“Lunatic. We used to believe moonlight drove people crazy.”
His phone buzzed. “Mr. President, we have Stephen Goldman on the line.”
Goldman had been the NASA director during the final two years of the Obama administration.
Ray backed out of the way as Goldman’s intense features appeared on-screen. “Good morning, Mr. President,” he said. “I guess I wasn’t surprised to hear you wanted to talk with me.” Goldman had been a political appointee, who’d been used to signal that NASA’s days of usefulness were effectively over. Though, of course, he hadn’t realized that himself.
“Hello, Steve,” Cunningham said. “Yes. We seem to have fallen on strange times.”
“The world’s gone crazy, Mr. President. Blackstone’s always been something of a crank. But this latest business is over the top even for him.”
“So there’s nothing to it?”
Goldman frowned. “Are you serious? Of course not. It couldn’t have happened.”
“Why not?”
“There’s no way NASA could have kept a secret on that scale. It would’ve gotten out.”
“While you were at NASA, Steve, you never heard about anything like that? No rumors? Nothing at all?”
“Nothing at all, Mr. President.”
“Can you think of any situation that would have justified two secret flights?”
“No, sir.”
“None?”
“Well, maybe if aliens were camped up there somewhere, and they’d told us to bring them pizza or they’d attack. Look, Mr. President, I knew some of the NASA people from that time. The only thing that mattered to them was getting to the Moon, and the only thing that mattered to the politicians was beating the Russians. There’s just no way they’d have done a landing and not said anything.”
—
Cunningham was looking at a busy day. Even by White House standards. A Pentagon delegation was scheduled in at nine. Then there’d be a conference with his treasury secretary and his economic advisors. When that was finished, he’d be sitting down with a couple of governors and a small group of educators to try to figure out what was wrong with the school systems. The United States was still running weak numbers in contrast with other Western nations and China and Japan. American kids were at the bottom in almost every category. He knew what some of the problems were: Politicians devised educational systems as if students were in some sort of lockstep. The importance of parents in the success of kids was overlooked everywhere. There was still no reasonable system for grading teachers and rewarding the good ones.
Everything that might be done to help seemed to run into interference from local watchdog groups who thought they had the answers. Or from politicians who saw a chance to convert the issue into votes. Or from teachers’ unions. Or from advocacy groups with no experience in the field.
It went on like that all day. But he couldn’t get his mind off Bartlett. He’d been briefed on the radio transmissions, on how only Bartlett had responded. On the strange notation by Aaron Walker stating he’d made his landing in April 1969. On the indications that something similar had happened on the Myshko flight. Thin stuff. Still, when you put it all together, and threw in the Blackstone videotape, it was hard to explain. And Blackstone did not seem like the kind of guy to back a dead horse.
Richard Nixon had been president in 1969.
Cunningham needed to talk to one of the inside people at the Nixon White House. But they were mostly gone. Had been gone a long time.
John Dean was still around. But he doubted Dean had been close enough to the president for something on this scale. There was someone else though—
—
He was in his quarters that evening when the call came through. No Skype this time. Just audio.
“Mr. President. This was a surprise.” Everybody in the country knew that voice, still strong, still carrying the ring of authority after so many years. “What can I do for you?”
“Henry,” Cunningham said, “how are you?”
“I’m well, thank you.”
“Glad to hear it. I suspect we could use you here.”
He laughed. “The world keeps getting more complicated, doesn’t it?”
“It seems so. I don’t suppose you’d consider coming out of retirement?”
Another hearty laugh. “I think you have a very efficient secretary of state.”
“Yes. John’s quite good.” He paused. Music drifted in from the next room, where his wife, Lyra, was playing a board game with the girls. “Did you see Blackstone last week?”
“No, Mr. President. I’m aware, though, of what he said.”
“You were National Security Advisor to President Nixon when we landed on the Moon.”
“That is correct.”
“Would you care to comment on Blackstone’s assertions?”
Outside, he could hear the wind in the trees. “No. I have no comment.”
“All right, Henry. Would you be good enough to tell me what’s going on?”
The girls giggled. Anna said something, and they were all laughing. He went over and closed the door.
“Mr. President, surely you’re not taking any of this seriously?”
“I just want to get at the truth.”
“I see.” The wind picked up, then went away. “Mr. President, at the time I was a bit too busy with foreign affairs to become involved in Moon flights. May I offer you a piece of advice?”
“You may answer my question, Henry. That is not a request.”
“If I had any knowledge of the matter that contradicted what everyone already knows, you may be assured I would not hold it back. You’ve established yourself as an effective president, sir. You’re the man the country needs in these turbulent times. Please do not do anything to damage that perception.”
“Henry—”
“Mr. President, stay away from this absurd business. You have nothing to gain. Even if Blackstone were correct, a curious premise in itself, it cannot harm you or the country. Your obligation is to preserve the respect the nation has for you.”
“Then whose concern is it?”
“No one’s. And that is my point. Stay away from this matter. Very likely nothing will ever come of it. If it does, it is best that you remain at a safe distance.”
19
Milt Weinstein was known in the trade as a fixer. He didn’t like the connotation, because to him it sounded as if he fixed horse races and baseball games, but in truth he had almost no interest in either of them. What he fixed were political problems—leaks, indiscreet statements, bimbo eruptions (odd how quickly that became an accepted political term), and the like.
He wasn’t thrilled with the thought of going to Los Angeles to speak with a ninetysomething astronaut who hadn’t said anything that could embarrass his employer. In fact, he had no idea what kind of answer he was trying to elicit from Amos Bartlett. For all he knew, he’d be trying to have a conversation with a drooling, incontinent old man who barely remembered his name, let alone his Moon flight.
But he’d been ordered to go by Ray Chambers—and Chambers was close to the president, so here he sat on a commercial airliner, in economy class yet, reading some news magazine that was two weeks behind where he was and wondering how long it had been since they had stopped selling booze in those cute little bottles.
Finally, he landed. As he picked up his suitcase, he automatically looked around for someone in a chauffeur’s uniform holding up a sign with his name on it, and then remembered that, of course, there wouldn’t be one, not when he was traveling incognito. He then spent a couple of minutes wondering why the hell a man who was unknown to 99.99 percent of the public had to travel incognito in the first place.
He walked out of the building, waited patiently in line for a cab, and gave it the name of h
is hotel. When it arrived, he gave the driver an extra twenty to stay put for a few minutes. Then he went to the front desk, got his key, and tipped a bellhop to take the suitcase up to his room while he went back out and climbed into the cab again.
Then it was off to the military hospital, a dull, rectangular, unimaginative brown building. The cab pulled up to the front door, let him off, and sped away while he walked through the glass doors that opened automatically when they sensed his presence.
He stopped at the front desk and got the name and room number of the general who was in charge of the facility, and was then given an escort to his office. The sign on the door told one and all that this was the office of Major General Samuel H. Glover. The young sergeant who had accompanied him knocked on the door, waited for a gruff “Come!” from the other side, then opened it and stepped aside as Weinstein entered.
The general looked at him with a total lack of interest.
“Yes?” he said.
“General, my name is Milton Weinstein. I believe I’m expected?” Glover frowned at him. “Is there something wrong with you?” “I’m here to speak with one of your patients. I’m just checking in to announce my presence and make sure there won’t be any hassles.” “Which patient?”
“Amos Bartlett,” said Weinstein.
The frown deepened. “Press?”
Weinstein shook his head. “Absolutely not.”
“Then what’s your business with him?”
“Actually, I work for your boss.”
“General Landis?”
“His boss,” said Weinstein with a smile. He pulled his White House pass out of his wallet and handed it to Glover.
“Are we to assist you in any way?”
“No. I just want to make sure I won’t be stopped or have to go through a mile of red tape.” “All right,” said Glover. “I’ll have the young man who brought you here escort you to Bartlett’s room. But first, you will stop by this room”—he scribbled down a room number on a piece of paper, then handed it over—“and dictate and sign a statement that you have been sent here by the president of the United States. If you are telling the truth, no one else will ever see the statement or know of your visit unless you choose to make it public.” Another frown. “But if you’re lying, or here under false pretenses, I can promise you a long, not very enjoyable stay in another government facility not too far from here—Terminal Island.” “Understood,” said Weinstein.
He turned to the door, prepared to open it, only to find his sergeant standing there. He escorted him down the corridor to the office indicated on the paper. When they arrived, Weinstein dictated his statement to a young officer at a computer, waited for it to be printed out, and signed it.
“All right,” he said, turning to the sergeant. “I’d like to see Bartlett now.” “This way, sir,” said the sergeant.
“Can you tell me anything about him?” asked Weinstein, as they walked to an elevator.
“I know he flew one of the Apollo missions, sir, one of the ones before we landed on the Moon.” The sergeant punched the button for the elevator. It arrived, and they got in and started up. “Anything else?” asked Weinstein.
The sergeant shrugged. “Just that he was moved here to keep him away from the press.” “Why?”
“I really don’t know, sir. He seems a nice old guy, but of course I’ve only seen him a couple of times, once when he arrived and once when I took him to one of the labs for some tests.” “Tests for what?”
“You’ll have to ask the medical staff, sir.”
The doors opened, and they stepped out onto the fourth floor.
“When I’m done, do I just walk back to the elevators and go down to the main floor and out the front door?” asked Weinstein, who was sure it couldn’t be that easy.
“In essence, sir,” said the sergeant. “I’ll be standing outside Bartlett’s room while you speak to him. The door will be closed, so neither I nor anyone else can overhear you. When you’re through, just open the door, I’ll escort you back down, you’ll sign out, and I’ll arrange transportation for you.” “That’s very thoughtful of you.”
The sergeant finally smiled. “Your tax dollars at work, sir.” They walked down the sterile, unadorned corridor, took a left, and stopped in front of a door.
“This is it?” said Weinstein.
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay. I’ll take it from here.” Weinstein opened the door and stepped into the room. A very old man, who looked even older than his ninety-two years, sat propped up in his bed, watching a televised baseball game on the TV screen that hung on the far wall. He noticed Weinstein but didn’t turn off the set or even lower the sound.
“Good afternoon, Amos,” began Weinstein.
“Shut up!” said the old man. “There’s two out and two men in scoring position.” Weinstein stopped speaking and looked around the room. The old man had a pile of books on his nightstand, and didn’t seem to be attached to any monitoring devices. The place smelled of chemicals, cleansing fluids mostly, but then so did the rest of the hospital. There was a phone on the table, hidden behind the books, and a pair of glasses folded atop the stack of books. A window overlooked the parking lot.
“Damn!” muttered the man as the batter struck out, and the game ended. “Okay,” he said, turning to Weinstein. “You’re not a doctor or an orderly, so what do you want?” “My name is Milt Weinstein, and I’m here to talk to you.” “You can tell Bucky Blackstone to go to hell!” snapped Bartlett. “I’m not saying anything.” “I don’t work for Blackstone,” answered Weinstein.
“Then what are you doing here?” asked Bartlett suspiciously.
“Like I said, I want to talk to you.”
“Well, I don’t want to talk to you.” Bartlett folded his shriveled arms across his chest.
“Maybe if I tell you on whose behalf I’m speaking, you might change your mind.” “Maybe it’ll snow in August, too,” said Bartlett.
Weinstein pulled a chair up next to the bed and sat down. “Okay, Mr. Bartlett. You don’t want me here. I’d rather be three dozen other places. But this is my job, and I’m not leaving until I get what I want. How long it takes is up to you.” Bartlett glared at him. “All right,” he said at last. “Who are you working for?” “Ever hear of George Cunningham?”
Bartlett muttered an obscenity. “I knew it!”
“Well, at least you realize he’s got the clout and the money to keep me here until I get what I came for.” Weinstein smiled.
“Why can’t everyone leave me alone?”
“Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll see to it,” said Weinstein.
“You’re just a flunky. You can’t make promises for him.” “You’ve only got one thing anyone wants, Mr. Bartlett. Once you tell it to me, the president’s got no further interest in bothering you, and he can see to it that no one else does either.” “How?” demanded Bartlett. “This place is like a prison, and if I go back to the home, everyone will find me there.” “I’m sure we can arrange the equivalent of the witness protection program,” said Weinstein. “New name, new state, all expenses paid for.” “They’d find me.”
“They wouldn’t even be looking for you. Besides, how old are you?” “You’re saying I’ll die before they find me.” Bartlett shrugged. “Probably you’re right.” “Then shall we talk?” said Weinstein, pulling out a video device the size of a matchbook. “Don’t mind this. It’s just to make sure I don’t misquote you.” “First things first. Prove you work for Cunningham.” Weinstein pulled out his ID card and handed it over.
“I could get fifty of these printed up in an hour’s time,” said Bartlett. “You must be able to get your boss on your cell phone. I want to see his face when he’s answering you.” “I can’t bother him in the White House just to prove I work for him,” said Weinstein. “The man’s got a country to run. This is small potatoes.” Bartlett stared at him for so long Weinstein was afraid he was going comatose. Finally, he nodded. “All right. As
k your questions.” “Thank you.” Weinstein leaned forward. “You were on one of the Moon missions prior to Apollo XI, right?” Bartlett nodded. “Yeah. I was the command module pilot for Aaron Walker. But you know that.” “Tell me about the mission.”
Bartlett closed his eyes, sighed, then opened them. “Everything seemed in order. We took off on schedule, jettisoned our boosters on schedule, reached the Moon on schedule, orbited it the first time on schedule. It was a picture-perfect mission up to that point.” “Then what?”
“Then we orbited it again.”
“And?”
“And again.”
Weinstein grimaced. “What aren’t you telling me, Mr. Bartlett?” “Every word I’ve told you is God’s own truth!” he snapped.
“I never said it wasn’t,” replied Weinstein. “I asked what you weren’t telling me.” “I want a cigarette first.”
Weinstein actually laughed. “In a hospital? Lots of luck.” “I want one!”
“I’m sure you do.”
“And I’m not saying another word until you get me one.” “Then we’re just going to stare at each other until one of us falls asleep,” said Weinstein.
Bartlett stared at him. “Damn. You’re smarter than she was.” “Who are you talking about?”
“Blackstone’s spy.” A pause. “Cunningham has more competent people than Blackstone does.” “Thank you for the compliment.”
“I didn’t say good people, I said competent,” replied Bartlett.
“I thank you anyway. Six of one—”
Bartlett stared at him. “You have qualities. I’ll bet you’re great at rigging elections.” “Never tried,” said Weinstein. “Can we get back to the subject?” “Blackstone’s lady?”
“The Moon flight.”
“Aaron and Lenny are both dead, you know,” said Bartlett. “I’m all that’s left.” “I know.”
The Cassandra Project Page 19
