“How many people will be on the ship?”
“Four or five. I don’t believe it’s been finalized yet.”
“And he’s definitely going to be on the landing craft?”
Jerry nodded. “He’ll be on the ship. I don’t know whether he intends to go down to the surface.” Then: “I wish I was going, too.” He surprised himself with the comment. Would he really have been willing to ride the rocket for a chance to go to the Moon?
“Is he planning more flights?” asked The Miami Herald. “Commercial ones?”
“I don’t follow you,” said Jerry, frowning.
“Well, there’s no resort hotel on the Moon, but would it be terribly far-fetched to suggest he could get a few million per passenger to go up there, especially if he hints that there’s something strange going on, something our government has been hiding.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Jerry. “For one thing, he’d have to charge close to one hundred million a ticket to break even. For another, he’s simply not going to do it.”
“Will he be transmitting pictures back to Earth, or does he plan to hang on to them and sell them to the highest bidder?” asked The New York Times.
“Wouldn’t you consider that immoral?” asked Jerry. “Given the importance of what might be in those photos.”
“Absolutely,” replied The Times.
“But of course you’d bid for them anyway,” said Jerry irritably. “Fortunately, Mr. Blackstone has no need of any more money. All photos and videos will be instantly posted on our Web page and can be picked up by any news publications and networks at no cost.”
“It just doesn’t make any sense,” said CBS.
“Could you elucidate, please?”
“I’ve followed Bucky Blackstone’s career for twenty years now, and he doesn’t do anything that hasn’t got a profit motive. The guy practically defines everything I hate about capitalism, and suddenly he’s a public-minded citizen who’s spending a goodly part of his fortune getting us back into space and perhaps clearing up a half-century-old mystery, just out of the goodness of his heart. I don’t buy it.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” said Jerry, searching for a quip or a put-down and not finding one.
“You know what I think?” continued CBS. “I think he’s doing this to embarrass President Cunningham, to somehow imply there’s some kind of nefarious conspiracy concerning the Moon and the space program.”
“Why would he do that?” asked Jerry.
“To enhance his chances when he runs for the presidency.”
“I can categorically state that Morgan Blackstone has absolutely no interest in running for any political office,” said Jerry, hoping that he was telling the truth.
“Then it doesn’t make any sense!” snapped CBS.
“Of course it does,” said Jerry. “Wouldn’t you go to the Moon if you could? And if you were convinced something had happened up there, something the government has been hiding for half a century, wouldn’t that be all the more reason to go? You’re a journalist. That bespeaks some sense of curiosity. Why do you feel that Mr. Blackstone can’t possess one as well?”
“Because everything he’s claimed is contradictory to everything we know!” snapped CBS. “The government wasn’t hiding Moon landings; it was bragging about them.”
“Bragging, certainly,” agreed Jerry. “And perhaps misleading as well.”
“If Blackstone doesn’t find anything up there that Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin didn’t find, will he buy another half hour of TV time and admit he was wrong.”
“I assume he’ll do just that,” said Jerry, trying to keep the uncertainty out of his voice. He glanced to his right, where Ed Camden was listening to his cell phone. Suddenly, Camden grinned, turned to Jerry, and raised a thumb in the air. “In fact,” continued Jerry, “Mr. Blackstone has just confirmed it. If he can’t find evidence of a governmental cover-up, he will go on TV and say so.”
“If there were secret missions, they’d have taken place at the beginning of Nixon’s first term,” said The Chicago Tribune. “Now, we all know Nixon was secretive, and he had more than a few chinks in his moral code—but can you suggest any possible reason why he’d have secret missions just days and weeks after he took the oath of office? I mean, he had a government to set up, and a war in Vietnam to try to end. What the hell could divert his attention to the Moon and make him decide to keep whatever it was secret?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Jerry. “That’s one of the things Mr. Blackstone hopes to find out.”
“I have a question,” said The Christian Science Monitor.
“Go ahead.”
“Let’s say that Mr. Blackstone is right, and something happened up there.” He was almost shouted down by his own colleagues, but he waited patiently until the noise had died off and he could be heard again. “If Mr. Blackstone is right, clearly President Nixon felt there was a need to keep whatever it was secret.” He looked around, waiting to see if he would be shouted and jeered down again, but his colleagues were listening, trying to see where he was going with this. “And if that is so, doesn’t it imply that this was something that Presidents Ford, Carter, Reagan, Bush 41, Clinton, Bush 43, Obama, and Cunningham have all agreed was important to keep secret? And if every president was in agreement, then perhaps there’s a pretty good reason not to try to expose what they are hiding.”
How the hell do I answer that? thought Jerry. It’s the same question that’s been bothering me when I go to sleep each night.
“You know what a secretive son of a gun Nixon was,” said NBC. “He’d probably never have told Agnew or Ford, so maybe it’s not a conspiracy of presidents, but a character flaw of one president.”
The journalists began arguing among themselves: Would Nixon tell anyone? Why would any president down the line feel compelled to keep Nixon’s secret?
Jerry relaxed with a sigh of relief. The relief passed when he realized that it was going to be like this every day, that in fact they were probably taking it easy on him because it was his opening day on the job.
The conference went on another twenty minutes. Finally, as it began winding down, one of them asked if Jerry would be on a future Moon rocket.
Jerry shook his head. “To be honest, I don’t even like airplanes. It’s terra firma for me.”
“Some spokesman for a space shot!” snorted a reporter.
“You didn’t seem to mind my being a spokesman for NASA,” said Jerry coldly. “I don’t remember your minding my setting up some private interviews for you when no one else would go out of their way to do so.”
The assembled journalists seemed to realize they’d pushed Jerry enough for one day, especially his first day, and they asked a few innocuous questions. Finally, Jerry said that he would take one final question and call it a day.
“Has the Moon rocket got a name yet?” asked Newsweek. “Maybe something like the Enterprise?”
“Yes, it has a name,” said Jerry.
“Well, what is it?”
Jerry turned until he was facing the bulk of the cameras. “The Sidney Myshko.”
And, twenty-eight floors above him, Bucky Blackstone smiled in satisfaction. “We hired a good one,” he said to Gloria Marcos. “I guess we’ll keep him.”
25
“After all I’ve done for him,” said the president. He watched with a growing sense of betrayal as Jerry Culpepper defended Morgan Blackstone and implied government deceit.
“Wouldn’t you go to the Moon if you could?” Jerry demanded of the reporters. “And if you were convinced something had happened up there, something the government has been hiding for half a century, wouldn’t that be all the more reason to go?” Cunningham shook his head. “You can’t trust anybody, Ray. If not for me, he’d still be impersonating a lawyer in TV commercials for an obscure Ohio firm, trying to persuade viewers that he was on their side, and that ‘the team’ at Carmichael and Henry would happily take on the big corporations f
or those who’d acquired a lung disease”—he couldn’t remember which—“because of irresponsible construction work.” Cunningham had taken him on board in Ohio during a successful run at the governor’s mansion and provided an opportunity for him to rise to national prominence during the 2016 presidential campaign. “Then I handed him the job at NASA. And this is how he pays me back.” Jerry had left the press area by then and was back inside the terminal at Flat Plains. It was just like Blackstone, naming the new vehicle for Sidney Myshko. It was a nice touch but pure theater.
Ray grunted his agreement. “I can understand why Jerry lost patience with NASA,” he said, “but I’d never have believed he’d cross over and join that son of a bitch.” The president shut the screen down and sighed at the ingratitude of the human race. “People have short memories,” he said. “Well, I shouldn’t be surprised, I guess.” “He’s not the guy you thought he was, George.” “No, he isn’t.” Cunningham dropped the remote onto a coffee table. Not worth being annoyed over. “Ray, are you sure you’ve checked with everybody about this? There must still be a few people around who would know if anything that big had happened.” “You mean the landings?”
“Of course.”
“George, it’s been a half century. The high-level people who were at the White House and at NASA simply aren’t with us anymore. We’ve asked everyone we could find. Nobody knows anything. But almost all of them were staff assistants or secretaries. There’s no reason to believe they’d have known about anything major that was going down.” “What about the intelligence agencies?” “You know how they are. Everything’s Top Secret Bimbo or whatever. They don’t talk to one another, and I suspect they don’t talk much to the directors. I don’t think they trust anybody who didn’t come up through their organization. The information doesn’t get passed around. It’s just put into a classified vault somewhere, everybody retires or dies, and pretty soon it just gets lost, and nobody knows it ever existed. I think that’s where we are now.” “Ray—”
“Yes, sir?”
“You think it happened?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because there’s no explanation that makes sense, George. We were in a race with the Soviets to see who could get there first. To the Moon. If we’d touched down before Apollo XI, can you imagine any kind of reason President Nixon would have had for keeping it quiet?” Cunningham raised his arm in surrender.
“That’s exactly right, George. It’s ridiculous. The whole thing’s ridiculous. And that’s why—” Cunningham heard the jingle of Ray’s cell phone. The chief of staff took it from his pocket, lifted the lid, and glanced at it. “Milt,” he said.
The president felt an odd reluctance. “Let’s hear what he has to say.” He tied the phone into the speaker. “Hi, Milt,” he said. “President Cunningham’s with me. What have you got?” “Ray, I can’t find anything about Cohen’s being involved in political activities. But he seems to have been hit pretty hard by Watergate. It looks as if he might have started drinking heavily at about that time. And something else: He took his own life.” “I didn’t know that,” said Ray. “Did he leave a note?” “No. But I checked into it. People who knew him said he was despondent. Said he was always gloomy.” “How’d he die?”
“An overdose of sleeping pills. I checked out the police reports. They were satisfied there was no foul play. But what’s interesting is that the description of his personality is so different from what I heard about him at George Washington. At least the early years there. He had a reputation for being easygoing. Casual. Everybody liked him. Life of the party. Then, suddenly, in the midseventies, it all changed.” “Maybe,” said Cunningham, “his name was on the list of the Watergate escort service. He might have been worried about being exposed.” “Nobody I could find,” said Weinstein, “thought he’d ever have screwed around with whores, Mr. President. Excuse my language.” “It’s all right.”
“Apparently, he had all the women he wanted. Didn’t have to pay for them.” “Okay. It was just a thought.”
“Anything else, Milt?” asked Ray.
“Yes. Speaking of the Watergate—”
“Yes?”
“It probably doesn’t mean a thing. But I told you about the drinking problem. Apparently, he was overheard one night saying how he’d been one of the Watergate burglars.” “Well,” said Ray, “I don’t think I’d give that too much credence.” “I talked with some of the people who knew him after he retired. They said it was a kind of running joke. When he’d had too much to drink. And you’re probably right, I doubt it means anything. Still—” “Thanks, Milt.” Ray broke the connection and stared at the president. “George, we have nothing.” Cunningham got up, looked at the time, looked at his chief of staff. “What do you think?” he said.
“I didn’t hear anything that convinced me Cohen was anything but a drunk.” The president had a busy afternoon coming up. “I have to get moving, Ray.” “Okay, sir.” Ray started for the door.
“Wait one.”
“Yes, George?”
“Are any of the Watergate burglars still alive?” Ray checked his BlackBerry. “One. Eugenio Martinez. Lives in Georgia.” “Okay. Let’s have Milt talk to him. We need to get control of this situation.” “It’s a long time in the past.”
“I’m talking about handling Blackstone.” “Oh.” Ray’s face scrunched up. “If we want to get the FAA involved, it’s getting late.” “No, we can’t do anything like that. If we start throwing up obstacles, Blackstone will scream, and the media will be all over us. Why don’t we try something different?” “What do you suggest?”
“Talking to the happy billionaire.”
“We’ve tried that.”
“Let’s try again.”
“Okay. I guess we can’t lose anything. You want me to take care of it?” “Yes.” He smiled. “You might try appealing to his patriotism.” —Cunningham’s afternoon was booked. There would be the weekly CIA briefing, and meetings with the Director of National Security, with members of the National Education Committee, with a planning group for the nation’s highways, and with the Lone Eagles, who were advocates for wildlife protection. In addition, he’d be giving awards to several Afghan veterans. The big conference, though, would be tomorrow morning, when the World Committee for Safe Population Levels would be in town.
Global population was just beginning to get serious attention. Many nations had chosen to follow China’s lead, limiting families to one child. The Chinese had instituted the policy in 1978.
One of the several consequences of this unhappy approach was that families tended to favor male children. They were aborting girls by the millions. Consequently, the world was facing a growing crisis: Males in large numbers around the planet, especially in poorer nations, were coming of age in a world that didn’t have enough women. The conference would be an effort to—at the very least—sound an alarm. Millions of angry males without women. And probably without jobs. If that wasn’t a formula for disaster, the president had never heard one.
After dinner, he and Lyra would be hosting an evening with Manny Garfield, the Pulitzer Prize–winning poet. He didn’t particularly care to spend two hours listening to poetry he didn’t even understand, but it was part of his responsibility as president. No way he could disappear from the proceedings. Next week, Maury Petain would be in to play his violin. Ray had warned the president against trying to pass himself off as a lover of the arts. Political enemies would accuse him of being an elitist. Cunningham had explained patiently: It wasn’t a matter of passing himself off as a lover of the arts. It was a matter of serving as a responsible host.
And anyhow, he had a taste for Rachmaninoff. What’s wrong with that? I’m president of the United States. I’ll listen to whatever music I want.
26
“Blood pressure: 127 over 68 . . . pulse, normal . . . heart, missing.”
Bucky sighed as he sat on the edge of his desk. “Most people get a doctor. Me, I g
et a comedian.”
“Just repeating what I read in the papers,” said the medic, with a smile.
“I thought it was my brain that was supposed to be missing.”
The medic shook his head. “The White House is claiming you could have hired more than two hundred thousand men and women for the money you’re spending on the Moon shot. That means you’ve cost two hundred thousand Americans and an unspecified number of illegal immigrants their jobs.”
“They really said that?” asked Bucky, amused.
“Don’t you listen to the news?”
“Not when I can help it.”
“Well, you’re a heartless, mendacious villain who’s costing us jobs,” said the medic.
“Can’t argue with that, not when Cunningham’s keeping a bunch of caddies and golf courses in business.” Bucky began putting on his shirt. “So, am I fit to go?”
“You’re fit to fly to Montana. You’re even fit to breathe in that thin mountain air. I don’t know if you’re fit to fly to the Moon.”
“I thought I passed all the tests back in your clinic last week,” said Bucky, frowning.
“And you were fit to go to the Moon last week. As for today, I can’t state it with certainty unless I run another barrage of tests.”
“Fortunately, you don’t have to. I’m the guy who makes the final decision.” Suddenly he grinned. “Admit it. Would you rather it was my hand on the button?”
“I thought we got rid of all our nukes.”
“Except for the ten or twelve thousand we held back for self-defense.”
“You’re really feeling your oats this week,” said the medic. “I think maybe the best thing we can do with you is stick you on the Moon.” He paused. “Do you really think Sidney Myshko landed there?”
“Absolutely.”
“Why?”
“Ask me when I get back.”
“If he didn’t land, are you coming back?”
Bucky smiled. “I’ve been wrong before, I’ll be wrong again. I’m not ashamed of it.” His face hardened. “But I’m not wrong this time.”
The Cassandra Project Page 24
