The former president sat quietly for a moment, looking back over that conversation. “I thought he was kidding. I really thought it was some kind of joke. And he got annoyed. We were alone in the Oval Office and he’d begun by congratulating me on my victory, and telling me how he hoped I’d have better luck than he did with the war. His voice shook when he mentioned that. ‘End it,’ he told me. ‘Doesn’t matter how you do it, but get out of that hellhole.’
“He told me he understood that our views of how the country should work were at odds, but that he hoped I would not oppose the Great Society measures he had taken. Then he told me about the dome.
“I gave the go-ahead order. On January 15, 1969, two of our astronauts landed near the Cassegrain Crater and approached the dome. It wasn’t especially big. About the size of a single-story house. The astronauts, Sidney Myshko and Brian Peters, walked right up to it. We have the videos from the landing stored at the museum, filed under riverboat KYB.
“The thing had a door. It looked as if one of them touched a doorbell. I couldn’t tell them apart in their space suits. But they touched something, and the door slid up. Into the dome.” He looked almost dazed.
“It was dark inside. They flashed lights around, and we saw a small table. Otherwise, the place was empty. Not a goddam thing. So they walked over to the table. There was a plaque on it. Silver-colored metal on a dark base. The lighting wasn’t good, and they were right on top of it before I realized there was a message on the plaque. In a strange language.
“And that was all there was. They brought the table and the plaque home. The table is located in a secure storage area at the Presidential Library in Yorba Linda. They don’t know they have it, but its numerical designator is AY775. You already have the plaque in your possession.
“Actually, there will be two plaques in the package. One is in Greek, the other in Aramaic. The Greek plaque was put together by us for the sole purpose of getting the Russians on board. In the end, we didn’t use it. I didn’t think it would work, and it seemed better to tell them the truth. So that’s what we did. When they learned what it was, they got seriously scared. They thought if the word got out, it might destabilize us. The last thing they needed was a destabilized United States. And in all these years, they’ve never said a word.
“The Aramaic plaque, of course, is the one we found. And the message is different.”
Cunningham had a copy of the translation on his desk:
Intelligent life is rare. When we discovered your cities, your boats, your dwellings, we wanted to join with you in mutual celebration. Our first action was to send an ambassador. But you killed him. Without provocation. Our judgment was perhaps hasty. And in error. We should not have trusted you. Nevertheless, we wish you good fortune. By the time you reach this place, if indeed you ever do, we hope you will have changed.
“My translator,” continued Nixon, “informed me that the language dated from about the first century A.D. And Aramaic, as you may know, was the language in Israel from about 500 B.C. to A.D. 70.” He stopped and waited, as if Cunningham needed a moment to get the point. “If we had released that information, you know the conclusion people would have jumped to. We were already in the midst of a war, and the country was coming apart. The last thing I needed, on top of everything else, was to have a major religious battle break out. So I kept it quiet. NASA sent a second mission to destroy the dome, to blow it apart and bury it.
“If the truth hasn’t already come out, Mr. President, I urge you to restrain it as best you can. For the good of the nation.”
Cunningham had stopped it there.
“It was the right move,” said Ray.
“I agree.”
Ray was trying to appear reassuring, but Cunningham knew him too well. He was getting ready to attempt a sale. “Times have changed,” he said.
“I suppose. We don’t have a war on our hands.”
“We have an obligation to be honest with the nation.”
“No.”
“You won’t even consider it?”
“No. I won’t.”
“George, this is the scientific discovery of the age. You can’t continue to hide this.”
“Let it go, Ray.”
“But why not do it? You wouldn’t have to take a stand. Just release the data. People will draw their own conclusions about it. If organized religion takes a hit, so be it. It causes half the problems in the world, anyhow.”
“And maybe eases the other half. Look, Ray, life can be a tough ride. For a lot of people, their religion is all they have to hang on to. We’re not going to undermine that.”
“It’s going to happen eventually. You’ve seen the numbers.”
“Fine. Whatever happens, happens. First off, we don’t know the truth. Secondly, religion may or may not disappear from people’s lives. But if it does, I won’t be party to it.”
“Okay. You’re the president.”
“None of this gets beyond this office. Right?”
“Of course not. I won’t say anything. But be aware that the people at the Nixon Museum will almost certainly let the press know you got a package from Mr. Nixon. And that it had something to do—”
“If we have to take some heat, we will.” Cunningham restarted the program.
Nixon straightened his shoulders. “One final point I’d like to make, Mr. President. When the plaque first came into my hands, I had to find someone to translate. We weren’t even sure what the language was. John—John Ehrlichman—had a friend who was a professor at George Washington University. I forget his name. But he did the translation for us.
“He never knew how we’d acquired the plate. Or at least, he didn’t unless John told him. But I doubt very much that happened.” He thought about it. Shook his head. “No. No chance. In any event he—the professor—assured us that none of what he’d seen would go any further. But we didn’t realize he’d made notes. Kept them, despite his assurances no written record would be made.
“We put the plate away, intending it should never see the light of day. I’d thought about destroying it, but that seemed inappropriate.” He stopped, and he seemed focused on another time. Another place.
“In June 1972, I got a call from John. The professor had informed him that he’d lost materials relating to the translation. Worse, he’d been socializing with the Democrats. With Larry O’Brien, and he thought he’d left the briefcase in his office. At the Watergate. O’Brien claimed he knew nothing about it.
“I have no idea who I may be speaking to, or how long it has been since I left the stage. It may be twenty years. It may be centuries. But I want to make the statement to you that I could never make to the American people: The reason for the break-in had nothing to do with politics. It was for the benefit of the nation. For that reason and no other.
“I should add that O’Brien, it turned out, did not have the briefcase. The idiot professor had left it in the hotel restaurant. But the guys who went in, and paid the price, never said anything. They never mentioned the professor’s notes.” He looked out at Cunningham. “I owe them. The country owes them.”
And the screen went blank.
—
Ray sat back in his chair. “So where do we go from here, George?”
“We’ve arrived at the last act, Ray. It’s over. Blackstone will give the voters an answer. He knows we handed it to him. He won’t be able to figure out why, but he’s indebted to us, and he knows it. So I don’t think we’ll take too much heat from him.” Cunningham got up and walked over to the window. The sky was heavy with clouds. No Moon that night. “We’ll announce tomorrow that Blackstone probably has it right. The people from the museum will think that’s what was in the package. And it’s done.”
“Well, I hope you’re right.” Ray extended his right hand. “Congratulations, Mr. President.”
—
The president was going over legislation that had just arrived for his signature when Kim called him. “Mr. President,” she s
aid, “Mr. Blackstone is on the line. I don’t know how he got this number, but—”
“It’s okay, Kim. Have him hold for three minutes, then put him through.”
Cunningham went back to reading a bill to upgrade the national parks. Or, perhaps more accurately, trying to read it. He was uneasy about the call. And he was looking at his watch when the phone began blinking again. He pressed the button and Blackstone’s image appeared on-screen. “Mr. President,” he said. “We should talk.”
42
Two Secret Service men ushered Bucky into the Oval Office, then took up positions on each side of the doorway.
“You don’t want them here,” said Bucky, indicating the two men. “What we have to discuss is private.” Cunningham, seated behind the large mahogany desk, faced the Secret Service men and nodded.
“But, sir—”
“He’s an old friend,” said Cunningham.
“Frisk me first if it’ll make you feel any better,” added Bucky.
“We already did, sir,” said one of them.
Bucky looked surprised. “When?”
“Electronically,” came the answer. “When you entered the White House, and again when you entered the office.” “Isn’t science wonderful?” said Bucky. “Not only can we reach the Moon, but we can frisk a man without touching him.” The two men looked at Cunningham questioningly.
“It’s all right,” he said. “Leave us.”
They exited, closing the door behind them.
“I’m not so naïve to think that this isn’t being recorded on both audio and video,” said Bucky when they were alone. “Just make sure you get to the tapes or disks or whatever the hell you’re using before anyone else does.” “It can be arranged,” said Cunningham. “Perhaps you’d care to tell me why you think it will be necessary. And please be quick about it. I have a meeting in ten minutes.” “Cancel it.”
“No one gives orders to the president of the United States,” said Cunningham firmly.
“Then I’m requesting you to cancel it. Please.” “Now look here, Mr. Blackstone—”
“Bucky.”
“Now look here, Bucky, I’m giving you a private meeting on something like three hours’ notice. There are senators who have been waiting four and five months for one. So let’s get to the point. You made it to the Moon and you proved someone was there ahead of you. I congratulate you for your remarkable achievement, and I hasten to point out that I was as unaware of what you discovered as the rest of the world. Now, what is the purpose of this meeting?” Bucky smiled. “Very well said. It really tempts me to vote for you next time.” He indicated a chair opposite Cunningham’s desk. “May I sit down?” The president nodded.
“There’s just one little problem,” continued Bucky.
“Oh?”
“Jerry Culpepper got a mysterious phone call, directing him—and me—to the NASA Archives, where, thanks to his ability to decipher a really vague clue, we found a truly remarkable plate that Sidney Myshko reportedly brought back from the Moon in January of 1969.” He pulled a folded paper out of the lapel pocket of his suit and placed it on the desk. “Here’s a photo of it.” “Amazing!” said Cunningham, picking the photo up and studying it.
“You know what’s the most amazing thing of all, Mr. President?” said Bucky.
“No. What?”
“It’s a phony.” The smile vanished. “And that means that the White House planted it for us to find.” “Damn it, Mr. Blackstone! I didn’t know Myshko had landed until you came back with the proof. I had no idea that there had been any deception, I didn’t even believe in it until yesterday, and I had no previous knowledge of this so-called plate.” “Maybe some of that is true,” said Bucky. Before Cunningham could protest, he continued: “Maybe all of it is. And do you know what, Mr. President? It doesn’t matter. Who’s the public going to believe? A government that’s been lying to them for half a century, or a man who went to the Moon and proved they were lying? So let’s talk turkey.” “Calm down, Mr. Blackstone.”
“Bucky, damn it.”
“Bucky,” corrected Cunningham. “Suppose you tell me what you’re talking about and why you think the plate is a fake.” “Ah, yes—the plate that no one spotted for fifty years but that took Jerry Culpepper and me less than twenty minutes to find and photograph.” “You’re a bright man,” said Cunningham. “The men and women who work at Marshall are minimum-wage civil servants.” “Rubbish,” scoffed Bucky. “The men and women who work there are retired officers for the most part. Anyway, we brought the photos back to the office and had the inscription translated.” “And what did it say?”
“It was a gentle warning from a benevolent starfaring race, cautioning us against the dangers of technology, pointing out that advanced civilizations have a limited life expectancy. It was a very considerate, caring message. Almost pastoral, in a sense.” He paused, and the smile returned. “And I almost bought it. I even reserved television time. And then it occurred to me: Why would anyone hide this message? Why would they lie about it for fifty years? Hell, why wouldn’t any president drag it along to nuclear disarmament talks? You want to balance the budget? Show this to the public, and they’ll beg you to gut the Pentagon. This isn’t the kind of thing you hide, Mr. President. It’s the kind of thing you display, and make political capital of. No president in his right mind would keep this secret.” The smile became less amused and more self-satisfied. “And that means it was planted for me to find. Two thousand years old, my ass!” he snorted. “More likely it’s two months old.” “Fifty years, to be exact,” answered Cunningham.
“Fifty?” said Bucky, surprised not at the answer but that Cunningham was willing to give it to him. “What’s really being covered up?” Cunningham stared at him, as if trying to make up his mind.
“You can tell me now,” added Bucky, “or you can tell the world after I go public with what I know.” Finally, Cunningham, his mind made up, nodded and pulled a very old VHS tape out of his desk drawer. “Go put this in the machine,” he said, handing it to Bucky and indicating the tape deck.
Bucky inserted the tape, turned on the monitor, hit PLAY, and watched transfixed as Richard Nixon’s image appeared and said, “Mr. President, I hope I haven’t caused any undue difficulty for you, but I was forced to take action . . .” —When it was over, Bucky sat silently frowning.
“Do you understand now?” said Cunningham. “I was only made aware of this yesterday, but I have to think he made the right decision.” “You know the odds against this ambassador being the person you think it was must be a couple of thousand to one,” said Bucky. “They killed a lot of people back then.” “If you were Nixon, or me, would you take the chance?” asked Cunningham.
“I’m glad I’m not you,” said Bucky earnestly.
“What are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Bucky. “I’ll have to give it some thought—a lot of thought.” He got to his feet and extended his hand to the man on the other side of the desk. “But believe it or not, I’m a patriot.” “I hope you are,” said Cunningham.
EPILOGUE
Three days had passed, and Bucky stood in the studio of Blackstone Enterprises, facing more than two hundred members of the national and international media. Since meeting with Cunningham, he’d made a trip to Huntsville accompanied by Jerry Culpepper and Ray Chambers, called the Moon flight crew back from their vacations, and arranged, through Cunningham’s influence, to get airtime on all the public and cable networks.
“Thirty seconds, Mr. Blackstone . . . twenty . . . ten . . .”
Bucky gathered Ben Gaines, Marcia Neimark, and Phil Bassinger behind him, and faced the cameras.
“Three . . . two . . . one . . . you’re on.”
Bucky blinked once as the lights became even brighter, then forced himself to relax.
“Good evening,” he began. Then a smile. “I almost said ‘my fellow Americans,’ but that is far too limiting a term. What I have to say is f
or the entire world.” He paused for effect. “We found something on the Moon, something I haven’t mentioned until now, because first, I needed to have it authenticated, and second, because I had to discuss our find with President Cunningham before revealing it to you—or sharing it with you, if you prefer.”
He turned, took the plate from Bassinger, and held it up for the cameras.
“While Marcia Neimark and Phil Bassinger were examining the find—the one you know about—in Cassegrain Crater, they came upon this plate in the ruins of the structure that had been there. The inscription—and copies and photos will be made available to all members of the press, as well as posted on the Internet—is in a very early form of Greek, dating from perhaps twenty-four hundred years ago, and yet, given where we found it, it was clearly not written by a human hand.”
He waited a moment for the full meaning of that to sink in.
“Yes, the Earth itself has been visited by an alien race, the same race that created the dome whose remains we found in Cassegrain. And as the translation makes clear, it was—and hopefully still is—a decent and benevolent race, a race that cares about us and our future. As you will see, there is a warning on this plate”—he waited for the audible gasp from the press to subside—“but it is not a threat. It is a warning for our own good, a warning on how to avoid a disaster in the future. I felt my first duty upon returning was to present it to the president and ask for his guidance”—there were only three or four disbelieving chuckles and snickers—“and he agrees that since this is a message to the entire human race, and concerns the entire race, that we make it available to the entire planet, and that is what I am doing. The translation will be posted on the Web within the next five minutes, as well as photographs of the plate.”
“So why was the discovery of the dome kept secret?”
“I suspect President Nixon was concerned that people would be frightened by the knowledge there’d been aliens on the Moon. It was, after all, a difficult time.”
“What happens to the plate now?” asked a reporter.
The Cassandra Project Page 35
