The Cassandra Project (18 page)

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 authorization, 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.”

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.

“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.

“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.”