The Cassandra Project (26 page)

“Did he find out anything?”

“He says that, according to Martinez, they weren’t really there to bug the place.”

“Really?” That made no sense. “Then what was it about?”

“Cohen.”

“Say again, Ray.”

“Cohen had a briefcase with some notes in it. Apparently, part of it was in a foreign language. Anyhow, somehow or other, it got into the Democratic office at the Watergate. That’s what the burglary was about. They were trying to retrieve the briefcase.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t know. But if we can believe Martinez, the administration took the heat for trying to bug the DNC headquarters rather than tell the truth.”

Cunningham rubbed his head. “That would have been three years after the Myshko flight.”

Ray held up his palms in surrender. “I don’t see how it could possibly be connected.”

“I don’t either,” said the president.

“So what the hell is happening down there?” said Bucky impatiently.

“We won’t know for another few minutes, until we’ve gone a little farther around the back side,” said Gaines. “Can’t you just relax and spend a couple of minutes luxuriating over your performance? After all, you just called every president from Nixon to Cunningham a liar, and you did it in front of, I don’t know, maybe three billion people.” He smiled. “You want something to worry about? Forget what Marcia and Phil might find. Consider the fact that the U.S. and Russia may be in a race to shoot us down when we return. After all, Washington’s not the only city that hid this. They had a lot of help from Moscow.” “I know,” said Bucky. “I’m just eager to find out
why
, and I have a feeling we’ll know as soon as we can contact Marcia and Phil again.” “In the meantime, just lean back and enjoy your notoriety,” said Gaines. “I hate a nervous passenger.” “You’re fired.”

“You fired me a few hours ago. You have to rehire me to fire me again.” Gaines looked at his instrument panel. “About five more minutes. We’re in no-man’s-land; can’t signal to Earth, can’t contact our people on the back side.” “Why do you call it the back side?” asked Bucky. “I always thought of it as the dark side.” Gaines shook his head. “It doesn’t show itself to Earth, but it’s not always dark. Now and then, the sun hits it.” “I didn’t know that.”

Gaines stared at him and grinned.

“What’s so funny?” asked Bucky.

“I was about to say that we could probably fill a book with all the things you didn’t know about the Moon, but you’d just fire me again, and that’s getting tiresome.” Bucky smiled, closed his eyes, tried to relax, failed miserably, and finally sat up and stared at the panel, which remained incomprehensible to him.

“So how long now?”

“Maybe another minute,” said Gaines.

“They’ve got to have found it!” said Bucky.

“Found what?”

Bucky shrugged helplessly. “Whatever
it
is. Whatever we’ve been hiding for half a century.” “What do you really think’s down there?” asked Gaines.

“I don’t know, but I’d guess that, whatever it was, they knew about it for years. It was in the photos as far back as 1959. That’s why all those photos were doctored, and that’s why Myshko was sent up here with orders to land and get a close-up. And then Walker’s mission obliterated it.” “Why?”

“If I can’t tell you what it is, I can’t tell you why they got rid of it.” “Little green men?”

Bucky shook his head. “First, I think we’d welcome them, I really do, even back in 1969. And second, if we blew them away, don’t you think they’d have retaliated? They’ve had a half century to do so.” “Yeah,” agreed Gaines, nodding. “Yeah, I suppose so.” “If on the other hand, they were little blue men . . .” said Bucky, and Gaines doubled over with laughter.

“What’s so funny?” said Neimark’s static-riddled voice.

“Just telling dirty jokes to each other,” said Bucky. “What have you got?” “We’re not exactly sure,” she said. “I sent Phil back for the video camera. I want you to see this close-up.” “What
is
it?” Bucky demanded.

“Just be patient,” she said. “It’s difficult to describe.” A brief pause. “Ah! He’s coming this way. Shouldn’t be another minute. Hurry up, Phil!” “Camera’s light as a feather,” said Bassinger’s voice. “But I’m still not used to walking across a rockpile in low gravity. Just want to be sure I don’t trip and bust the damned thing.” “So where’s the image?” said Bucky.

“I haven’t turned the camera on yet,” said Bassinger. “Wait’ll we get to the spot.” “What spot?”

“Just be a little patient, Bucky,” said Neimark. “It’ll make more sense if you can see it while we’re talking about it.” “I’ve got a question,” said Gaines.

“Go ahead,” replied Neimark.

“Is it green and does it move?”

“No, it’s a very dull gray.”

Suddenly, the image of Neimark’s face appeared on the panel.

“Just focusing,” said Bassinger.

“How far are you from the descent stages?” asked Bucky.

“Maybe three-eighths of a mile,” said Neimark.

“They landed pretty damned close to it, given that they were a half century behind us in technology,” added Bassinger.

“Close to
what
?” Bucky exploded.

“Okay, I’m about to show you.” They pointed the camera down at the ground about ten feet away from him. “Do you see it?” “I see a bunch of Moon rubble.”

“Now watch,” said Bassinger. “Okay, Marcia, give it a boost.” Neimark bent down, wrapped her fingers around
something
, something gray, and straightened up.

“It’s some kind of alloy,” continued Bassinger. “Super-lightweight, or she couldn’t lift it, even in this gravity. But hard as steel and clearly part of a greater structure.”
“Structure?”
repeated Bucky. “I don’t see any structure.” “It’s mostly buried,” answered Neimark, laying the panel down. “I’d bet a year’s pay that this wasn’t manufactured on Earth.” “But it
was
manufactured,” added Bassinger with absolute certainty.

“Oh, yes,” agreed Neimark. “This kind of thing doesn’t occur in nature.” “So what
is
it?” asked Bucky.

“We can’t be sure yet,” answered Bassinger, “but it seems to have been some kind of construction. I’ve brought along a shovel strapped to my back, and I’ll start doing a little tentative digging.” “Will you have enough air?” asked Bucky.

“If we need more, we’ll go back to the lander and get it. And I’ll also bring back some instruments that should help me determine what the hell it’s made of.” It took two more orbits, but finally Neimark was able to announce with certainty that the artificial structure had been a dome, and the photos they transmitted to the ship seemed to verify it.

“How big do you think it was?” asked Bucky.

“I don’t know. The more we dig, the more we find. The ground’s not packed here, it’s just rubble, so we’re not having any trouble uncovering it. So far, I’d say it’s at least thirty feet in diameter—but that’s a minimum. It could be—could have been—three times that big.” “Whatever it was, it sure as hell wasn’t an outpost for observing us,” said Bucky. “You could never see the Earth from there.” He paused, considering the possibilities. “Could it have been made by men?” “Not unless you think they reached the Moon before the dawn of the Apollo Program, erected whatever this structure was with materials the instruments still can’t identify, and came back unnoticed,” said Neimark.

“So it was an
alien
structure?” persisted Bucky.

“I’d say so, but nothing’s definite this early. The pieces are all curved, all the same way. It was a dome. That’s all we can be sure of right now.” “Were there any windows?”

“None that we can see.”

“But if the dome has no windows, what’s the point?” asked Bucky. “I mean, you can’t see through it.” Suddenly he paused. “Or could
they
?” “We don’t know anything about any mysterious ‘they,’” said Neimark. “But we’ve only uncovered one curved panel, maybe two. Have you ever seen an astronomical observatory, Bucky? They’re not transparent. They have reasonably solid, opaque domes, with holes and channels where they can position their telescopes.” “But they can’t see Earth from this side of the Moon!” said Bucky in frustration. “What in blazes were they looking at?” “You’re jumping to conclusions, Bucky,” she said. “We don’t know that they were looking at anything. Give us another few hours here, then we’ll grab some food, take a nap, replenish our oxygen, and come back to explore the site further.” “If it’s okay with you, Bucky,” said Bassinger, “we’re going to stop talking to you and get to work. We’ll transfer all the stills and videos to you, and I already see a couple of pieces of whatever this is that are small enough to carry back to the lander and take up to the
Myshko
.” “Yeah, go ahead,” said Bucky. “Besides, if you start using scientific terms, I’ll think you’ve gone crazy from the gravity and are speaking in tongues.” Gaines broke the connection and turned to Bucky. “So what do you think?” “Same thing as you. There was something up here that wasn’t human, wasn’t born on Earth.” “Is there a possibility we might have killed them?”

“I don’t know,” said Bucky. “My first inclination is to say we didn’t. There aren’t any bodies, and they wouldn’t decay and vanish up here. And if they’d fired on us, don’t you think President Nixon would have tried to rally the people to his side? I mean, this is a lot bigger than Vietnam.” He paused, frowning. “And then . . .” “And then what?” asked Gaines.

“Well, if we destroyed the dome, did we purposely or accidentally destroy whatever was in it?” He frowned again. “Myshko and his crew weren’t twenty-year-old fighter pilots with no experience. These were mature astronauts, trained in the sciences.
Why
would they destroy it? And why would nine administrations in a row hide it? Or did the last eight not even know? And if they didn’t, why would Nixon keep it a secret?” He shook his head in frustration. “I get the feeling that I know less now than before we took off from Montana.” “By the way,” said Gaines, “I assume you want me to send the photos and video of the dome back to Jerry.” Bucky shook his head. “Absolutely not. I don’t want the White House or anyone else seeing any of this until we’ve had time to study and analyze them back home.” “I figured as much,” said Gaines. “But they’ll be encrypted.” “They’ll be the most important thing ever sent from one machine to another. How long do you think it’ll take the CIA or the FBI to break through the encryption after they’ve intercepted them?” “What’s the matter, Bucky? We’ve made the most significant discovery in the history of man, and suddenly you sound paranoid.” “We aren’t the first to discover whatever this is,” said Bucky grimly. “You’re only paranoid if they’re
not
out to get you.”

Marcia Neimark and Phil Bassinger climbed into the command module and began removing their space suits.

“I wish I could say the air smells fresher,” remarked Bassinger.

“Settle for there being more of it,” said Bucky. He stared at the two of them. “I can’t tell you how much I hate you for being the ones to land while I was stuck up here.”

“Aw, that’s sweet,” replied Neimark.

“Really,” said Bucky. “Just be ready to spend the entire return flight describing everything you saw, every step you took, every sensation you felt.”

“Or you won’t feed us?” asked Bassinger with a grin.

“For starters.” Bucky’s tone was so serious that they couldn’t be sure he was kidding. Suddenly, he looked around. “Well, where the hell is it?”

“Come aft and have a look.”

Bucky half walked, half floated to the back of the ship, where the two curved plates were secured.

“You know,” he said, “if I saw these atop an ancient church or temple, or even an old, abandoned legislature building, I wouldn’t give them a second glance.” He paused and stared at the plates. “And yet they were responsible for three Moon flights and the expenditure of who knows how many billions of dollars. Why did we do it?”

No one had any answers, and, after a few moments, he made his way back to the front of the ship.

“So what do you think?” asked Gaines.

“Doesn’t quite stir the sense of wonder the way
this
does,” said Bucky, waving a hand at a viewscreen. “We’re not Earthbound anymore.
I
found a way; so will others. And now that I’ve shown that we don’t need the government to do it, man is coming back out here again and again. The human race’s greatest shame is that we turned our back on it for fifty years.” He stared out at the stars. “Damn, I hope it
is
an alien artifact! Once we know for sure they’re out there, nothing will hold us back!”

“Calm down, Bucky,” said Neimark. “You’ll have a stroke.”

“No I won’t,” he said. “Once upon a time, when I thought I’d experienced and accomplished just about everything, I’d have accepted a stroke with equanimity. But now that I’ve been up here, now that I realize I haven’t set foot on Mars yet but that I
can
during my lifetime, now that I’ve seen what we’re carrying back home, I intend to die with the greatest reluctance.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Neimark.

Cunningham, like any president, had grown accustomed to criticism. But the flavor was changing. Usually, attacks charged him with bad judgment. Now they were suggesting he’d allowed himself to be deceived, that there was a conspiracy at the heart of the government, and he had no more sense of what was going on than the voters. Where was the president who’d campaigned as the man who could make government work?

Brian Colson ran a clip of the vice president, speaking barely a week ago, lamenting that many of our troubles would go away if people could just have a little confidence. “The biggest single problem we have,” the VP had commented, “is that we’ve lost our willingness to trust the people we vote in. Don’t ask me why. Maybe we all see too many conspiracy movies.” “I guess that’s what it is, Jogina,” Brian told his guest. “Too many movies.” The lead editorial in
The
New York Times
delivered a lecture on presidential responsibility. “It’s time, Mr. President,” it said, “to go after the truth.”
The
Miami Herald
commented that he probably meant well but was simply out of touch. “What else does Mr. Cunningham not know?”
The
London Times
admitted to being shocked that he had not, when evidence of the backdoor Moon flights—as they were now being called—first surfaced, asked a few hard questions “of the right people.” The only media type he knew of who’d come to his defense was Harold Baskin of
Rolling Stone
, who suggested that maybe the president had been just as surprised as the rest of us. “It’s not always easy for a CEO to find out what the techs are doing out back.” “That may be true,” replied Len Hawkins on
All-Star Round Table
, “but I think I’d rather have a president who’s trying to keep the truth from us, for whatever reason, than one who doesn’t have a clue.” Lyra was waiting for him when he trudged up to his quarters for lunch after a painfully long morning. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine.” His tone suggested he didn’t need any sympathy.

She didn’t blink. “George, I know you’ve heard me say this before, but I’ll say it again: I’m sorry you didn’t go into accounting.” “Me, too.”

“You know,” she said, “they’re all idiots.”

“They think
I’m
the idiot.”

“I’d like to see any of those people, see Blackstone, especially, come in here and try to deal with the problems you have to handle every day. He’d be a basket case by the end of the first week.” Harry Culver called. Harry was the senior senator from Ohio, who’d encouraged him to go for the White House. Who’d been his mentor when he was just getting started in politics. “Just ride it out, George,” he said. “You’ll be okay. You should be used to stuff like this. As soon as the next scandal hits, it’ll go away.” But it wouldn’t, and he knew it. The world had changed with the advent of electronic communications. Presidents, beginning with FDR, were on the record. Nixon, despite a long career of postpresidential public service, would never get past
You won’t have Nixon to kick around anymore
. Or
I am not a crook
. Bill Clinton, who’d been a major contributor to global stability, would always be remembered as the guy who didn’t have sex with that woman. Jimmy Carter’s crisis of confidence comments, which had morphed into malaise, would live forever. And George W. Bush could spend the rest of his days rescuing kids out of burning buildings, but he’d never live down
Mission Accomplished
.

For Cunningham, the Bermuda Triangle remark had already become part of the media landscape. Yes indeed,
Ask Mr. Blackstone—
Worst of all, he was left with no answers. What actually
had
happened up there, Mr. President?

He had no idea.

—

When he got back to his office, he summoned Ray. “What do we have on Cohen’s briefcase?” “Nothing yet, George. To be honest, I’m not sure where to begin.” “Whatever was in there, Ray, Nixon apparently fumbled away his presidency trying to get it back.” He almost felt sorry for Nixon. He’d watched the old film clips, read Mason’s biography
The Plumbers and the President
, and understood why the country had turned against him. The truth, he thought, was that Nixon had simply not been emotionally capable of handling the pressures at the White House. Nixon’s basic problem was that he’d had a thin skin, and that’s a serious handicap on the big stage. Especially when you’re sending people into combat. And, of course, those were the Cold War years, when a misjudgment could have killed everyone on the planet.

The president’s cell sounded, the old horse-race theme, “Bahn Frei.” It usually fired up his circulation. But not this time.

The phone was lying on his desk, while the horses tore around the track. Ray disapproved of that particular ringtone. It sent the wrong message, he’d argued. Left people with the impression that Cunningham wasn’t a serious person. But Cunningham was, of course, the president of the United States, and if he wanted horse races—“Mr. President.” It was Kim. “Admiral Quarles is here.”

The African meltdown was intensifying. Quarles wanted to send in the Marines. The last poll indicated that 58 percent of the country wanted to do just that. It always amazed him how quickly people forget.

“Give me three minutes, Kim. Then tell him to come in.” He turned back to his chief of staff. “Ray, we need to find out what was in that briefcase. Do what you have to.” “How do you suggest we manage that, George?”

“Track down the people who worked in the DNC office at the time of the break-in.” “That was Lawrence O’Brien.”

“I know.”

“He’s no longer with us, sir.”

“Damn it, Ray, don’t you think I know that? But there must be somebody who was there. Somebody who remembers what happened. A secretary, maybe.” “Okay, Mr. President. I’ll do what I can.”

“Make something happen, Ray.”

The admiral arrived with two aides and a complete digital show demonstrating why we had to intervene. People were dying. More massacres were coming. The entire area was falling apart. And there were strategic considerations.

Usually, in military matters, Cunningham maintained a calm demeanor, listened to the arguments, and explained why he was not going to commit U.S. troops. It was a downhill slide. Put those first guys in. That’s the easy part. Then reinforce them. Then watch the other side show remarkable endurance. Fight until the country gets tired of it all. Then pull out and leave those who helped you in said country, your friends and allies, to be killed. The country had done it time and again since the end of World War II. Until it had left the U.S. financially drained and hopelessly divided.
Last Days of the Empire
, if you believed the title of a current bestseller. “We aren’t playing that game anymore, Admiral,” he said finally, letting his irritation show. “We are staying out.” Quarles was a small, thin man with an eagle’s beak. His scalp was crowned with thick white hair. He had an uncompromising conviction that the U.S. should use its military to stop the assorted killers in power around the globe. He was unwilling to recognize that Cunningham’s first obligation was to the citizens of the United States. “With all due respect, Mr. President,” he said in an angry whisper, “the blood’ll be on our hands.” He meant Cunningham’s hands, of course. And he was right. The president would have blood on his hands whichever course he chose. “Thank you for the briefing, Admiral,” he said. “I trust we won’t see any stories in the media about grumbling among the top brass.” When it was over, and the military contingent was gone, Cunningham switched on the TV and looked at the pictures that were coming in, of towns burned and people brutalized. Usually, it was hard even to find a motive for the killing.

And, of course, rumors of dissension at the Pentagon surfaced that evening.

—

“We can’t just stand by and watch,” said Senator Brig Nelson. Nelson was chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, and a member of the president’s own party. “It’s time we took action,” he continued, speaking on
Editor-at-Large
. “And do I think the president intends to move against these killers? I don’t like to put words into his mouth, but I’d be shocked if we don’t see something within the next few days.” Lyra sighed. “George, why don’t we watch
Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines
?” They occasionally spent their evenings with a classic film, when the outside world permitted. They always went for comedy. But it didn’t happen often. Usually, they were committed to a banquet or they were having one of their artist-of-the-month events or there was an emergency meeting of the Haubrich Commission, which was looking into the most recent breakdown of the nation’s infrastructure.

“I don’t think so,” said Cunningham. He was too stirred up at the moment.

Lyra reached over and touched his shoulder, trying to remind him he wasn’t alone. She still looked good. Beautiful eyes and soft brown hair and a killer smile. The media agreed she ranked right in there with Jackie, Laura, and Michelle. But one of the Fox commentators thought she needed to pay more attention to her wardrobe. And one of the women on NBC said she could be a bit more diplomatic. It was true that she tended to say what she thought, a definite drawback in the political world, especially when she noted that the Speaker of the House would probably not be so anxious to jump into a war if anybody in his family was in uniform. (The Speaker also belonged to the president’s party.) And just last week, she’d commented that the people who opposed family planning should learn how to count.

“George,” she said, “don’t you get tired of being attacked by these morons?” “Try not to take it so seriously, love.”

She wanted to get rid of Nelson but couldn’t locate the remote. “If we don’t act now, and decisively,” he was saying in that standard supercilious tone, “we’ll pay a price for it down the road. And eventually we’ll be trying to explain to our grandchildren why we stood aside and did nothing.” “His attitude might be different,” she said, “if he’d ever had to stand out at Dover and watch the bodies come back.” “Lyra,
I’ve
never had to do that.”

“And I think it’s smart of you to keep it that way.”

The host raised the issue of Blackstone’s Moon mission. “They’re almost home, Senator. What do you think it all means?” Nelson came close to scratching his head. “I’ll admit, Jules, that I’m baffled. And I’d bet the White House is as puzzled as the rest of us.” He looked out of the screen, playing his customary role as the Sage of Washington. “But I’ll tell you this: We’ll be putting together an investigation to find out exactly what happened and what they were trying to hide.” “Right,” said Lyra. “You know, George, I’d love to see some of these people come in here and make some decisions. Maybe—” The racetrack music started. Lyra rolled her eyes. She didn’t like the ringtone either.

It was Ray. “Mr. President,” he said, “we’ve found somebody.”

“From the DNC?”

“Yes. Her name’s Audrey Conroy. She was a bookkeeper.”

“Beautiful.”

“She’s retired. Lives in Washington State. You want me to send Melvin to talk to her?” Cunningham thought about it. “No,” he said. He was pleasantly surprised. He hadn’t thought anybody would still be alive. “We don’t have the time. Call her.
You
do the interview. Set it up so I can listen.” —While he waited, he did a quick search. Conroy’s stint with the Democratic Party had ended six months after the break-in, when she took a job with the Department of the Interior. About the time Jimmy Carter came to the White House, she met her future husband, a dentist who was vacationing in D.C. A few months later, they married, and she moved to his hometown of Walla Walla. Today, Audrey was a grandmother. Four kids. Seven grandkids.

Lyra was watching him sympathetically. “It’s a wild-goose chase, George. You know that.” “Probably,” he said.

“I hope your biographers don’t find out about it.” Her eyes grew very round. “I can see it now. Chapter 17: Chasing Watergate.”
Editor-at-Large
had gone to commercial. Lawyers appeared, reassuring the audience they would fight to the end for them.

Then Ray was back. “Mr. President, we have her.”

“Good.” He activated the Skype. Audrey Conroy appeared on the TV. She was seated at a table, looking a bit flustered, an understandable reaction from someone who’d just learned the White House wanted to talk to her. But she gazed directly out of the screen and kept her voice steady.

“Yes, Mr. Chambers. What can I do for you?” She was tall, with clear brown eyes and hair cut short. She wore a light blue blouse, and her expression reflected an amused awareness of her own disquiet. She did not look like a grandmother.

“Ms. Conroy, we’ve been trying to clear up a few details about the DNC operation at the Watergate.” “Really?”

“Yes. During the Nixon years.”

Her eyes fluttered shut. Then she was looking out of the screen again. Taking a deep breath. “You’re kidding.” “No, ma’am.”

“There’s another investigation going on?”

“No, no.” The chief of staff was trying too hard to be reassuring.
Just ask the damned questions, Ray.
“Nothing like that.” “Oh. Good. That’s a relief.”

“Yes. We’re just trying to set the record straight on a couple of details. Does the name Jack Cohen ring a bell?” Her forehead creased. Then she broke into a big smile. “You mean Larry’s old buddy.” “We’re talking about Lawrence O’Brien?”

“Yes. Is that who you mean?”

“Yes. Of course.”

The smile grew even wider. “Jack Cohen. Sure. This is the first I’ve heard
his
name in a long time.” “How well did you know him?”

She shrugged. “Not that well, really. He’d come into the office once in a while, and he and Larry would sit and talk.” Cunningham could see her reaching back through the years. “He seemed like a nice guy. But he wasn’t the quickest horse in the stable.” “How do you mean?”

“He was an academic type. Loved to talk about Egyptian tombs and stuff like that. I never understood what Larry saw in him. I mean, Larry was down-to-earth, you know what I mean?” “Yes. Sure.”

“Okay. Anyhow, Cohen was always in some other world. But Larry was a little bit like that, too. I mean, he had a good imagination. And he was smart. But Cohen always seemed kind of lost. I remember one time he’d promised Larry tickets to a play at one of the colleges. But he couldn’t find them in his pocket so he started looking through his briefcase. And he came up with tickets but they were to a show downtown.
The Thurber Carnival
, I think it was. The tickets were ten years old. I remember asking him if something had happened because he hadn’t used them. He shrugged and said how he didn’t remember, it was too long ago.” “Did he find the correct tickets?”