The Cassandra Project (23 page)

“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 for 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.

“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 get 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.”

“I know you and the guy you hired away, Jerry what’s-his-name, think the two of you know something the rest of us don’t know. But answer me one question: If Myshko was the first man on the Moon, why the hell would he keep quiet about it?”

“That’s what I plan to find out.”

The medic shook his head. “You’re not following me. I mean, if it was
me
, if
I
was the first man on the Moon, nothing in the world could have kept me from bragging about it.”

“And nothing in the world
did
keep him from bragging about it,” agreed Bucky. The medic looked at him questioningly. “Something on the
Moon
kept him from bragging about it.”

“What?” insisted the medic. “Little green men?”

Bucky shook his head. “He’d have brought one back to show us. Or maybe they’d have kept him to show
their
people.”

“Then what could keep him quiet?”

“Like I said, ask me in a month.”

“You’re a very frustrating man to speak with,” said the medic grumpily. “I’ll bet your blood pressure hasn’t changed in an hour. Mine’s probably gone up forty points just during this conversation.”

Bucky laughed and put an arm around the medic’s shoulders. “Then we’d better get you out of here while you’re still alive,” he said, walking him to the door. “And thanks for coming.”

“Thanks for paying for the clinic’s new wing.”

“Well, you never know. I might get my face slapped by a beautiful redhead right in front of the clinic and have to come in to have you staunch the bleeding.”

The medic turned to face him. “You are a loud, vulgar, arrogant, brilliant, manipulative, conscienceless man, and I wish I didn’t like you so much, so that I could hate you just a little.”

“Don’t give up hope, Doc. Your day may come.”

The medic left the office, and Bucky sat down at his desk.

“He’s right, you know,” said Gloria, swiveling her chair to face him.

“Are you going to start in on me, too?” asked Bucky.

“No,” she said. “I happen to admire those qualities. It means the corporation won’t go under anytime soon.”

“I
knew
there was a reason I hired you, besides the way you look when you walk away.”

“I haven’t looked like that in twenty-five years,” said Gloria. “Well, twenty, anyway.”

“I have an active memory.”

“But thankfully you don’t have active hands, at least not around me.” She smiled. “There was a time when I wondered why not, what was wrong with me.”

He chuckled. “There was nothing wrong with you. You were just too damned valuable to me and this organization to take a chance of offending you to the point where you quit.”

She smiled. “That’s actually perfectly in keeping with my appraisal of you. You make selfishness a virtue.”

“Funny. It doesn’t sound like one when you describe it like that.” He pulled out a cigar and lit it. “Don’t tell the doctor.”

“My lips are sealed,” replied Gloria. “Don’t blow it this way, or I’ll have to seal my nostrils, too, and then how will I breathe?”

“Clint knows he has to be at the airfield at 3:30, right?” asked Bucky suddenly.

“That’s the third time you’ve asked,” said Gloria. “Yes, he knows he’s flying you and Jerry to Montana. The rest of your crew has been there since yesterday.”

“Just anxious to be off,” said Bucky.

“Why is Jerry going along? He’s not part of the Moon shot, so he’ll just have to come back once you take off.”

“Clint’s got to bring the jet back anyway, and we’ll have some local cameramen, as well as the national news, covering the takeoff, and I want Jerry there standing next to the ship for everyone to see, just like I want him waiting for us when we land in Nebraska after coming back from the Moon.” He paused. “You made a face.”

“I wrinkled my nose.”

“Same thing. What did I do wrong?”

“It’s liftoff, not takeoff.”

“Does anyone really care?” asked Bucky.

“The press will correct you.”

He smiled. “Let ’em. The public holds them in less esteem than used-car dealers and congressmen. If they criticize me, it’ll make me warmer and more human.”

“Do you really think so?” she asked dubiously.

“Probably not. But it sounds good.”

Suddenly, her computer came to life, and, a moment later, Ray Chambers’s face appeared on her screen.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “I believe you know who I am. I’d like to speak to Morgan Blackstone, please.”

Gloria turned questioningly toward Bucky, who nodded and faced his screen.

“Good afternoon, Morgan,” said Chambers’s image.

“It’s Bucky. What can I do for you?”

“I’m calling on behalf of the president.”

“I’m astounded,” said Bucky.

“Please, Mr. Blackstone,” said Chambers uncomfortably. “You’re making this very awkward.”

“That’s what happens when you agree to do the president’s dirty work for him. Now, what is it that he can’t speak to me about himself?”

Gloria looked surprised that he’d speak to Chambers in such a manner, but the more ill at ease Chambers looked, the more Bucky was certain that he’d hit the nail on the head.

“The president wishes you a successful trip and hopes you and your crew come back safe and sound,” said Chambers.

“That’s very gracious of him,” said Bucky. “Please thank him for me.” He resisted an impish urge to pretend he thought the conversation was over and break the connection.

“Uh . . . there’s something more.”

“Surprises never end,” replied Bucky dryly.

“If you should find something up there . . . something, well, unexpected or unusual . . . I’m not saying you will . . .”—Chambers couldn’t hide his fidgeting—“but
if
you do, we would appreciate it if you would say nothing in public about it until we can talk.”

“What do
you
think I’m going to find?”

“Nothing,” answered Chambers. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Then isn’t this call a waste of your time?” said Bucky.

“Why are you being like this, Mr. Blackstone?” demanded Chambers in frustration. “I’m not the enemy.”

“You’re also not the president,” said Bucky. “And I don’t admire cowardice in the leader of the Free World.”

“He’s an incredibly busy man,” said Chambers. “Do you really think he’s afraid to speak to you?”

“I think he’s afraid of being recorded, and of course he would be, just as you are being,” answered Bucky. “Now, have you got anything else to say to me?”

Chambers stared nervously at him. “Do we have a deal?”

Bucky laughed aloud. “Go tell your boss that you might have had a deal if he’d had the guts to call me himself.”

“Is that what it’ll take?” said Chambers. “I can see if he’s able to tear himself away from his meeting . . .”

“You mean his putting green,” said Bucky. “And no, you and he blew it. No second chances.”

“I hope you’ll reconsider.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“We’ll be in touch again before you lift off.”

“No, you won’t,” said Bucky. “Now go back to your boss and tell him he’d better hope I come back empty-handed.”

Bucky broke the connection and turned to Gloria. “How’d I do?”

“Even if Cunningham himself had called, you wouldn’t have agreed,” she replied.

“Yeah, but then I’d have needed a different justification for turning him down.” Bucky grinned. “This made it easier.”

She stared at him for a long moment. “Why did you never go into politics?”

“Too much compromise,” he answered. “I like doing things my own way.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

Bucky stood up. “Damn it, I’m tired of sitting around waiting! Tell Jerry we’re leaving now, and have Clint meet me at the plane.”

“He’s filed a flight plan, Bucky,” said Gloria. “I don’t know if he can move it up at this late date.”

“Tell him to try. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Have someone bring my bags down to the limo and have a driver ready.”

He and Jerry had to kill two hours in the airport bar, but finally the private jet took off, and, four hours later, they had landed on Tabletop Mountain.

“Well, this is
it
!” said Bucky enthusiastically, as a car drove them to the hangar where the
Sidney Myshko
awaited them.

“The first step, anyway,” agreed Jerry. Then: “I wonder what you’re really going to find there.”

Bucky’s cell phone beeped, and he looked to see that the White House was calling though he couldn’t tell if the call came from Cunningham himself or one of his underlings. He grinned and put it back in his pocket.

“You’re not the only one,” he said.