by Peter Parkin
Brett ordered a second bottle of wine from his cute flirty waitress— she'd get a good tip tonight just for being so flirty. And she knew she would.
She brought the bottle, let him sample a glass, then asked if she could sit down and join him. The restaurant management was very casual and actually encouraged their attractive waitresses to hang out with the customers if it wasn't too busy.
And it wasn't busy tonight because it was late—only one couple in the restaurant other than him. Brett smiled and said no. But he told her he'd wait for her to finish and walk her home. She smiled knowingly. Brett squinted at her nametag: Olivia. Nice name. One he thought he could get used to saying for the rest of the night. But just for the night. She wasn't special.
While he drank his wine and waited for Olivia to cash out, Brett reflected on his barhopping with John Switzer two nights ago. The old guy had a great time, and could still hold his liquor. They started with beer at the first bar, and ended with brandy at the fourth. Brett then stuffed John into a taxi, gave the driver John's address and paid him what amounted to at least triple what the fare would be. But the driver had to promise to get John safely into his house and onto the downstairs couch. He promised. Brett glared at him and said he'd find him if he didn't do what he'd promised. Brett's glare always got results.
John's lips had been loose, as usual, but much looser than ten years ago. Brett was right—the man just didn't give a shit anymore. What did a man eighty-five years of age have to worry about anymore? Could they really threaten him with his life? Not bloody likely. So, he caught John at the right moment.
Brett remembered the troubling conversation that took place at bar number three:
"Another beer, John?"
"Don't mind if I do, Brett!"
"Hey old man—ten years ago when we last did this, you teased me about a royal protection junket that I had to do. You said that nothing could come close to what you did for 'The James Dean.' You never did tell me what that was."
"Are you sure you want to know? Just like in that Jack Nicholson movie, 'You can't handle the truth!' Ha, ha. Well, maybe you can. If you keep your mouth shut I'll tell you. You might be impressed."
"John, everything you've done in your life has impressed me. But, let's face it, most of it was pretty ho hum. For a genius like you, it's almost like you were wasted."
"That's only because you weren't in the inner circle, Brett. What I could tell you might make your toes curl!"
"I doubt that. But, try me. What was 'The James Dean?' Let's see what ya got." "It was a command module, Brett. For the moon mission that no one, outside of just a few of us, knew even happened. It flew September 1977. The mission was Apollo 19."
"Are you shitting me?"
"Told you you'd be impressed. No, I'm not shitting you. And there was another secret mission before that one—Apollo 18, in 1975."
"Why did NASA keep these missions secret?"
"Had nothing to do with NASA. The Pentagon took over after the last official moon landing in 1972."
"Why?"
"A crater was discovered. The 'Shackleton Crater' on the moon's south pole. The military boys got real excited. It was deep, probably held massive quantities of ice and most likely precious metals. But Apollo 18 found that it contained other stuff too. They brought back samples of things that were literally crawling around the rim of the crater."
"What the fuck?"
"Yeah, living organisms, bacteria, creepy crawlers—you name it, they found it."
"So, I'm afraid to ask. After Apollo 18, what happened?"
"They did tests and realized these combinations of primitive living creatures could be combined into unbelievable weapons of mass destruction. Except that they wouldn't necessarily have to destroy anything—other than life."
"And after the tests?"
"Well, this is the part that will really impress you about me. Get ready. I was assigned to design a weapon, one that could be jettisoned within the moon's limited gravity, directly into the center of the crater. A nuclear weapon. One that would open up the crater and, at the same time, test the viability of nuclear weapons in space."
"There's a Nuclear Test Ban Treaty in place, John! It forbids any nuclear weapon detonation in outer space! Christ, it's been in effect since 1963! Did anyone consider that? That's a clear violation of international law! For fuck's sake!"
"Ask me if I give a shit. I just do as I'm told, and put my brain to work when it's needed. And I was needed."
"Wasn't the detonation detected?"
"No, and this is the genius part. We timed the detonation at exactly the same time as the Russians conducted an underground nuclear weapons test, on September 30th, 1977, at the exact hour, minute, and second. They had announced their test well in advance, so all we had to do was time it. Any sensors detecting a nuclear signature in the atmosphere were just confused, and the geeks reading the results were even more confused. It was written off as just the effects of the Russian explosion. Clever, huh?"
"What happened after that?"
"Well, 'The James Dean' circled the moon for several days—to let the dust settle so to speak—and we then landed the lunar module, 'Rebel,' onto the surface of the moon a few hundred yards from the crater. This module was larger than any previous ones that landed, and was as high-tech as they come. I was involved in designing that too. It was a flying warehouse. Our astronauts collected massive quantities of organisms from the vicinity of the crater, bundled them up safely and after four days of work flew off the moon and connected back with 'The James Dean.' The prize was then brought home."
"The prize? You call it a prize? Where is this shit now?" "I don't know. Not my problem."
"Weren't you worried that the nuclear explosion would cause some havoc on the moon other than just opening up the crater?"
"It was only ten megatons—doubtful that it would do any permanent harm." "That's a sizeable bomb, John!"
"Yeah, it is. But it's within allowable limits."
"Maybe on earth, and underground. But this was shoved into an open crater, on a celestial object a lot smaller than earth."
"Nothing to worry about. Let's have another beer."
"If I remember correctly, that crater wasn't named 'Shackleton' until 1994. I remember reading something about the potential of water ice in that crater. What was it called before?"
"When we knew what we were going to do with it, we called it 'Rebel's Cause.' The Pentagon loves symbolism, as you know, with all their little adventures. The whole James Dean thing—September 30th being the anniversary of his death and all that."
"I read recently that they still intend to colonize the crater area sometime in the next decade or so."
"Ha, ha. That's just a smokescreen. It's uninhabitable—and dangerous. Those little organisms have probably mutated terribly by now from the radiation, and the blast opened up the crater to reveal a whole new world above ground to those little buggers. Who knows how big they are now, and how contagious. No, we got what we wanted. We won't be going back."
"Jesus, John! These little fuckers are on earth now! Doesn't that scare you? Where the hell are they?"
"Brett, I'm eighty-five years old. Nothing scares me. I have to admit I had a case of the guilts for a few years, but I'm over that. I've reconciled it in my mind. It'll be someone else's problem now, not mine. But, I'm sure the military have things well under control and the little buggers are probably being tested in a very safe environment, just like Ebola, Smallpox and other contagions. The plan was to play around with these things for a few decades before actually using them in a war environment. So, I guess they must be close— it's been over three decades now. Maybe the next war won't last too long, eh? Ha, ha."
"None of this is funny, John. Not at all."
Brett finished off the last of his second bottle of wine. He normally didn't drink so much in one sitting, but tonight he just felt like it. The wine went down like water.
He thought about that pathetic eg
otistical nuclear scientist who was near the end of his life, and didn't give a shit about the younger generations. Brett pondered how ironic it was—we breed and educate geniuses and make them feel like gods.
Flatter them and pamper them and then just use their genius for whatever evil we want to unleash upon the world. All for dominance. All for looking for an edge over the others, our so-called enemies. And proceed to sign Nuclear Test Ban treaties with our fingers crossed behind our backs. Just kidding—didn't mean to sign that stupid treaty. Yeah, we broke international law. Tell someone who cares.
Brett was feeling the wine now. Probably because he felt so despondent to begin with. Who's side was he on? Who's side should he be on? For the first time in a long, long time Brett was reminded that he had a conscience. And it was nagging him mercilessly at the moment.
Maybe it was just the wine.
He jerked his head around at feeling a gentle tap on his shoulder. Olivia was standing behind him, her coat on and a bling purse hanging from her shoulder.
"Are you ready, Brett?"
He nodded and stood up warily.
Then he thought to himself, 'Are any of us really ready? And do we have any idea what it is we have to be ready for?'
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Dennis couldn't remember the last time he had this many people sitting with him in his formal dining room, let alone having dinner with three women.
He couldn't be bothered cooking, so he ordered Chinese food from a fantastic place a few blocks away. Together, they polished off a feast of ginger beef, chicken fried rice, chop suey, sweet and sour shrimp, and fresh hand-rolled dumplings. Delicious.
He'd just served coffee and liqueurs. They were about as relaxed as was humanly possible after discussing Fiona's ordeal of two nights ago.
That night Dennis had just crawled into bed when he got the frantic call from Fiona. He was still on 'cloud nine' after his dinner with her, knowing they'd now set up an actual movie and dinner date—their first real date. He was just dreamily falling off to sleep when the phone rang. At first her voice was hard to recognize, she was breathing so hard in between words.
He rushed over to her house and spent the next two hours consoling her. He saw the damage her assailant had done to the floor, and while he wasn't surprised that a man's hand could do that kind of damage—he knew he could easily do it too—he was alarmed that the man had gone to such great lengths to extract information out of Fiona.
Once she'd calmed down, Dennis bundled her up and took her back to his house. She'd been staying with him ever since—in one of the guest bedrooms on the second floor.
She was almost ready to return to her place now, reconciling in her mind that the man had just wanted information and hadn't planned to hurt her. In fact, towards the end of her ordeal she had already come to that realization after he had taken care to breath moisture into her throat. He had done it so gently, even though she was more than aware that he was capable of incredible violence.
And she told Dennis that there had been something in his muffled voice that had put her mind somewhat at ease even at the same time as she was feeling panic. It was a strange combination of emotions that the stranger had evoked in her.
Tonight was the night Dennis had decided he would make nice again with Barb Jenkins. So Barb joined them for dinner, and he'd also invited his sister Melissa.
Mel had moved back to her house a few days after the funeral, but she agreed to come over tonight only if Dennis told her the entire story. She knew he'd been troubled about their mother's death, but all he had told her so far was that she'd had some moments of lucidity before she died. She knew there was more, and demanded to know what he had been so evasive about.
Tonight was a brainstorming session with the three people Dennis cared about the most in his life. He was proud to now include Fiona in that exclusive club.
Barb came over to the house first. Dennis gave her a big hug and told her he was sorry for reacting as strong as he had. He told her he understood. They had a good chat about Barb's disclosure regarding James Layton, and Fiona's terrifying ordeal. They cleared the air between them, and were once again the best of friends.
Melissa arrived just before dinner. She seemed to be warm enough toward Fiona, but Dennis could tell there was a little bit of big sister jealousy going on. He wasn't surprised.
He and Mel had always been close growing up—she'd even asked him to take her to her senior prom after her boyfriend broke up with her. Even though Dennis was three years younger, he'd always looked older than Mel. So, he cut a handsome figure on the dance floor with her, and part of him knew that she'd asked him to go with her just to make her ex jealous. The games. He never minded playing them for his lovely sister.
Melissa was a brunette, with a slender athletic figure that belied her age. Still very attractive at fifty-eight, looking more like forty-two. She was a serious sort, very detailed and intense. Perhaps typical for an accountant— and a very successful one at that. She'd handled audits for numerous Fortune 500 companies. Mel was also a talented artist, a hobby she indulged in daily now that she was retired from the rat race.
The way she dressed screamed 'artist.' Funky, casual, unpretentious—Dennis loved Mel's laid-back style, which in itself was in stark contrast to what her occupation had been.
Sipping his liqueur, a nice Grand Marnier on ice, Dennis opened up the conversation about what he really wanted to talk about. Up until now, the conversation over dinner had been fun, relaxed and more of 'get to know each other' stuff between Mel and Fiona, with he and Barb jumping in from time to time.
But now he was getting impatient.
"Ladies, I'm into something pretty serious here. And now Fiona's involved, and Barb, whether you like it or not, you are too. I think the time for 'protection of secrets' is over, do you agree?"
He looked straight at Barb. She looked back, and simply nodded. "Okay, I'm glad we agree. I want to summarize what we know so far, and some of this will be new to Mel. But it's important she know the whole story now."
Dennis then summarized everything as concisely as he could: Lucy's revelation that there was a secret package of some sort. The DOD staff tossing her room at the nursing home. Lucy's reaction to the song about the moon, and then revealing that there had been an Apollo 19 mission.
Then her mentioning of 'Shackleton,' and Dennis' research that told him it was a crater on the moon. The truth about The Casper Agency being a domestic front spying operation for the DOD caused Fiona and Mel to gasp in shock.
And last but not least, Lucy's sudden retirement from the Pentagon at fifty years of age, with what appeared to have been a handsome payoff. What was the payoff for?
He took a deep breath before detailing what was on the personal recorder, knowing that Mel was hearing this for the first time. Hearing for the first time that her mother had been killed.
After telling that part of the story, Dennis could see tears rolling down Mel's cheeks. She excused herself and went to the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later, Barb went in and joined her.
When the two of them came back out, arm in arm, Mel said, "I'm okay now, Denny. Who could have known this hard-nosed lawyer here could be such a consoler?"
Barb chuckled. "Sweetie, it's always been easy for me to 'mother' you. You bring that instinct out in me, an instinct that I've never had the chance to use in my own life. So—let me 'mother' you any time you need it, okay?"
Mel gave her a kiss on the cheek and they hugged each other.
"Okay, okay—if you two are finished with this little love fest, I'd like to continue."
Fiona playfully punched him on the shoulder.
Barb and Mel sat down and Dennis continued. "The tape discloses so much—the fact that there was not only an Apollo 19 but also an Apollo 18. These missions were kept totally secret from the public. The big question is 'why?' Also, mom mentions on the tape that 'Shackleton' at one time was called 'Rebel's Cause.' What does that mean, and what is the signi
ficance of this crater?"
Dennis took another sip of his Grand Marnier and glanced around the table. They were each staring at him, with puzzled looks on their faces. He continued. "Mom said that Apollo 19 went up in 1977 and Apollo 18, in 1975. We have to assume these were both moon missions—all the Apollo-named missions were. So, what in God's name were they doing up there in those two years, that had to be kept so secret?
"Now we get to a more sensitive part of the story. Are you ready to discuss this, Barb? About you and James Layton?"
Barb winced. "Yes."
Dennis nodded. "Okay. Fiona had the living daylights scared out of her the other night. I'm betting that the man who attacked her is the same one who is on the personal recorder. I played it for Fiona, but because his voice was so muffled through his mask she can't say for certain that it was the same man. But, let's just assume that it was.
"Fiona disclosed to him what Barb had already told her. That Barb and James Layton had an affair. The official story is that James committed suicide by gunshot to the head in his own office. The Pentagon refused to release the suicide note, even to the family. They claimed 'national security' as the reason, and a judge allowed that privilege.
"That was in December of 1977, the same year that this Apollo 19 purportedly flew. Then mom took over as interim Chief Counsel for the Pentagon, and presumably would have been made privy to all of the high security stuff that James would have been privy to. She did the job for a year, then retired at the end of 1978 with a full pension and a hefty payoff in the amount of five million dollars."
Denny looked over at Barb, and made a flourish with his hand. "That's as much as I know—so the floor is now yours, Barb. Fill in the blanks for us if you could please?"
Barb sipped her brandy and sighed. "You'll remember when we were talking a few weeks ago, Denny, that I confessed to you that I had experienced 'love at first sight' only once in my life. You asked me what happened, and I told you that 'he died.' That was James. Yes, he was married and all that, but I couldn't stop myself. Our affair lasted two years; right up until the day he died. My heart was broken, completely."
