The Cassandra Project (13 page)

“I want you to determine whether there
are
any missing pieces.” “Jerry, you say these pictures are from the sixties?”

“Yes.”

“So why would anybody care?”

“It’s hard to explain, Cal.”

He took a deep breath. “I assume it has something to do with the Myshko flight?” “It might. I don’t know. But I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this to yourself.” “Okay. But hell, Jerry, what’s going on over there? You guys trying to start rumors about secret missions?” “I can’t imagine a better way to cut off what’s left of our funding, Cal.” “Seriously.”

“I think there’s simply a communication breakdown somewhere. I’m trying to settle it now.” “Okay. Send the pictures. Do you have descriptions of what they’re supposed to be?” “I have the mission parameters.”

“All right. Send those, too.”

“One other thing, Cal—”

“Yes?”

“If you see anything unusual, anything you wouldn’t expect, let me know, okay? But nobody else.” A wide smile appeared. “What did you have in mind?”

“I don’t know, Cal. Anything odd.”

—

It was a Friday night. Jerry had been dating Susan Cassidy on and off over the past few months. Susan was a librarian in Titusville. She was not exactly gorgeous despite her raven hair and dark eyes. But she was smart, and she was the type of woman who grew more attractive as you got to know her. He was sitting with her at the Olive Garden on Merritt Island enjoying his spaghetti and meatballs when his phone buzzed.

Jerry was not one of those people who’d sit with a friend, or a date, and talk on his cell. But he saw that the call was from Cal. “This is important,” he told Susan. “Bear with me, okay?” She smiled and nodded. No problem.

“Yes, Cal,” he said. “What have you got?”

“Not a thing, Jerry. Everything that’s supposed to be there is
there
. I can’t find any missing parcels of ground. The missions pretty much covered the entire area.” “You’re sure.”

“I ran them through the data file. Everything’s correct.”

“Okay, Cal. Thanks.”

He turned the phone off, dropped it into a pocket, and said, “Sorry.” Then he went back to the meatballs.

Susan’s eyes drifted past him. She raised her wine, sipped it, put it back down. “Is there a problem?” “No. Everything’s fine.”

“My experience over a lifetime, Jerry,” she said, ‘is that when people say ‘everything’s fine,’ it usually isn’t.” He grinned. Shrugged. “It’s no big deal, Susan.”

“Is Blackstone going to do another TV show?”

“It’s not anything like that.” He explained about the lunar photos.

“You think they saw something up there, and they were hiding it?” “No. I don’t.” He tasted his wine while he thought about what he wanted to say. “You know, Susan, I’m always amazed at how easily we get sucked into crazy notions. I think we all have a predilection for fantasy.” “And this Cal didn’t find anything missing?”

“No. Nothing deleted from any of the pictures.”

She smiled. “That must be disappointing.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Oh, come on, Jerry. Wouldn’t you love to discover there’s a big mystery of some sort going on? Something the government’s been covering up for half a century?” He laughed. “Listen, babe, my job’s complicated enough. I don’t need any mysteries.” “Jerry.” It was almost a sigh. “Where’s your romantic side?” “That only shows up when you’re in the area, Susan.”

“Ah. Well spoken, Lancelot.”

He lifted his wine to her. “I calls them the way I sees them, sweetheart.” “Of course. I’d expect no less.” She touched glasses. “Jerry. About the pictures. There’s another possibility.” “What’s that?”

“Maybe there
was
something they didn’t want anyone to see. So they
did
make them unavailable.” “But we have the pictures. There’s nothing missing.”

She shrugged. “Proves nothing. They could have photoshopped them. Maybe they simply replaced them with other pictures.” —The following day he called Cal again. “I hate to ask you about this,” he said, as the professor began frowning, “but I need something else. It occurred to me that somebody might have replaced the original pictures. Photoshopped them. Is that possible?” “Is it
possible
? Sure it’s possible, Jerry. Almost
anything
is possible. You can’t travel faster than light. And you can’t travel in time. Except forward, one day at a crack. Otherwise, anything goes. What are you suggesting?” “I’m not suggesting anything, Cal. But I want to eliminate the possibility that the original pictures were replaced. Is there a way to do that?” “Sure,” he said. “But listen, Jerry. First of all, I’m buried these days. And anyhow, even if I weren’t, it’s not my field of expertise. You want a professional for something like this.” “Can you suggest anyone?”

“I don’t think there’s anybody here who would qualify.” He smiled. “Something like this, I’d take to NASA.” —His old girlfriend still looked great even though the years had begun to pile up. She was African-American, a graduate of LaSalle University in Philadelphia, and a rabid baseball fan. The Phillies, of course. She was the only woman Jerry had ever really loved. But the chemistry hadn’t worked on her side. He’d been smart enough to make sure the breakup hadn’t erupted into a cascade of hard feelings. And he’d stayed in touch, more or less. But he was reluctant to ask a favor. The rush of emotions that came from being near her had not abated over the years.

Last he’d heard, she was still single.

—

She smiled at him out of the display, told him she was glad to see him again, and asked how he was doing. “You seem to be making news,” she added.

“Not sure how I got in the middle of it, Mandy,” he said.

“Story of your life, Jerry.”

He laughed. “It’s just a series of communications problems.” “Okay.” She gazed at him skeptically. Tilted her head. His heart started racing. It was as if he were back in high school.

“I could use your help, Mandy.”

“What do you need?”

“I want you to look at some Moon pictures. The lunar surface. We have the dates when they were supposed to have been taken, by probes and satellites. In the late 1960s. And the locations. I’d be grateful if you could tell me if they are what they’re supposed to be.” She looked at him. “How’ve you been doing, Jerry?”

“Okay,” he said.

“Married yet?”

“No. Not yet. I’ve got a candidate, though.”

“Good,” she said. “Lucky woman.”

That hurt. But he kept going. “How about you?”

“Been too busy, I guess.”

The conversation trailed off. She was, he thought, trying to find a way out. She didn’t want to do the lunar pictures. And she was uncomfortable in his presence. “Okay,” she said finally. “But, Jerry, keep my name out of it. Okay?”

Bucky spent the night in the office. He didn’t do it very often, but for those occasions when he needed to, a luxurious bedroom suite had been installed on the top floor—he hated calling anything in an office building a penthouse—complete with shower, steam bath, state-of-the-art sound and video systems, and fifty of his favorite books.

He
could
have had his driver take him home, but he’d have had to run the gauntlet of the press, which had left about a dozen members camped out in front of the building and another handful at the exit to the underground garage.

The most recent polls said that 80 percent of the public thought he was a flake, so why, he wondered, was the press still after him? Then he realized that a billionaire flake was probably worth more copy, vocal and written, than just about anyone other than (and, on some days, including) the president.

He spent half the night watching reruns of famed boxing matches, one of his passions. He saw the seventh round Long Count, Sonny Liston’s first-round dive in Maine, Mike Tyson turning to putty when he realized he couldn’t bully or terrorize Evander Holyfield, Arturo Gatti and Mickey Ward meet three times in the squared circle to show onlookers what the sport was all about. He watched Max Schmeling, who didn’t want the weight of the Third Reich on his shoulders, collapse under it in less than a round, and Muhammad Ali show lightweights and bantamweights how to stick and run.

He was still sitting in his overstuffed leather chair when he woke up at five in the morning. The channel—clearly devoted to reruns that could be purchased for pennies, or at most dimes—was now showing Seattle Slew beating Affirmed in the only battle of Triple Crown winners, and Ruffian breaking down, and Man o’ War running past all known reference points. He reached for the remote, turned it off, staggered over to the king-size bed, and collapsed on it, fully clothed.

He woke up at eight, showered, shaved, put on a pair of slacks and a polo shirt—when you own the company, anything you want to wear becomes the day’s dress code—and considered going down to the building’s cafeteria. Then he decided that if the press had managed to get inside, they’d be looking for him there since there was no way they could get up to the top floor—the elevators required personal codes for the top three floors. He checked the refrigerator to see what he had in the suite, and found some not-yet-stale donuts. He pulled them out, made some coffee, and sat down to eat, drink, and catch up on the morning’s news.

Jerry Culpepper wasn’t fielding questions that day, and Bucky wondered if they were hiding him, disciplining him, or if they’d let him go. He contacted Gloria, who had just arrived, and asked her to check on Jerry’s status in case he was available. She got back to him five minutes later: No, he was still employed by NASA.

Too damned bad,
thought Bucky.
I could really use that young man. He’s got a rep, and he’s Ed Camden without the paranoia and rough edges.

He spent a few more minutes nursing a second cup of coffee, then got to his feet, walked down the corridor to his office, and entered it.

“Good morning, Bucky,” said Gloria. “You look like hell.” “That’s what I like: respect from an employee.”

She smiled. “Would you rather I lie to you?”

“Much.”

“Good morning, Bucky. You look better than I’ve ever seen you.” “God, it sounds
worse
,” he muttered. “Go back to telling the truth.” Gloria laughed aloud. “You’re a night person. You can’t help it. But since you
are
, and you own the company, why do you feel you have to drag yourself into the office every morning by nine?” He stared at her for a long moment. “I hate it when you ask questions like that.” “You want some coffee?”

“No, I’ll float away. I assume Jerry Culpepper hasn’t been fired since last we spoke?” “No.”

“Pity.” He paused. “We’re not at war with anyone?” “No.”

“No earthquakes, tornadoes, or hurricanes on the horizon?” “No.”

“Maybe I
will
go back to sleep.” He was about to walk back out the door when her computer came to life.

“I don’t think so,” she said.

“Oh?”

“Sabina Marinova just entered the building. She wants an immediate meeting with you.” “Send her up,” he said. Suddenly he frowned. “How the hell did she get back so fast?” “She commandeered one of your private jets and pilots.” “How about that?” said Bucky. “She’s already showing more initiative than Camden. I knew I liked that girl.” “I’d be careful about calling her a girl,” said Gloria. “She’s as tall as you are and probably twice as fit.” “I thought all women like being called girls.”

“About as much as you like being called a boy by a member of my sex.” “I don’t mind it.”

“
You
don’t mind that two hundred million Americans think you’re as crazy as a loon,” she shot back.

“Two hundred
fifty
million,” he responded with a smile. “Unless Fox and CNN are both lying.” “Doesn’t it bother you, Bucky?” she asked seriously.

“I’d rather they agreed with me,” he said. “If I’m right, eventually they will, and if I’m wrong, then they
should
think I’m crazy.” She stared at him. “I suppose that’s the kind of self-confidence it takes to make all those billions. Personally, it’d drive me as crazy as they thought I was.” He smiled. “I’ve been wrong before. I’ll be wrong again.” Suddenly the smile vanished.
“But not this time.”

There was a knock at the door. Gloria opened it and Sabina entered the office.

“Well?” said Bucky. “Did you see him?”

Sabina nodded. “I saw him.”

“Is he still there?”

“He’s probably safer there than anywhere else.”

Bucky frowned. “Are there people out after him?”

“I meant from the press.”

“Did he have anything interesting to say?”

“That’ll be up to you to decide, sir . . . I mean, Bucky,” said Sabina. “I have a video of our conversation. He doesn’t know I took it.” “Clearly, you didn’t hold up a camera or a cell phone,” said Bucky. “What did you use?” “Mr. Brent showed me how to outfit myself,” she said with a smile, pointing to a button on the vest of her pantsuit.

“I’m surprised Mr. Brent knew,” said Bucky. “Usually, he just beats information out of people.” “Really?”

“Not since he began working here—but I like to think he had a romantic past.” There was a brief pause. “Can you show me the video now?” “I can feed it through your computer or just project it against a wall,” said Sabina.

“Start with the wall. Gloria might as well watch it, too, since I’m not competent to process it.” She stared at him curiously. “Private joke. Let’s see it, please.” She manipulated the button, a tiny window opened in it, and an instant later the image of a very old, very wrinkled man in a hospital gown appeared on the wall.

“I’m very glad you agreed to see me, Mr. Bartlett,” said Sabina’s voice.

“Why not?” he said. “You’re not press, and you’re not federal.” “I take it the past few days have been difficult for you?” “For me and those in charge of me,” he agreed, “no thanks to your boss.” “You mean Mr. Blackstone?”

He nodded his balding head. “Bucky Blackstone, right.” Suddenly he smiled. “That was some speech he made the other night!” “You heard it?”

“Of course I did. Everyone knew he was going to say something explosive about NASA. I wanted to see what it was.” “And now that you’ve heard it, what is your opinion of it?” asked Sabina.

“That he’s asking for trouble.”

“You mean by saying irrational things?”

Amos Bartlett stared at her. “If you say so,” he replied at last.

“You’re the only living member of the two flights that preceded Apollo XI.” “Clean living does it every time,” said Bartlett with a smile that was interrupted by a coughing fit.

“Are you all right, Mr. Bartlett?”

“I’m fine,” he replied. “Just had one too many cigarettes after dinner. Do you smoke?” “No.”

“Smart lady. I wish I could break the damned habit. Maybe I can in this place. They didn’t look happy when I lit up.” “We’re getting off the subject, sir,” said Sabina. “What did you think of Mr. Blackstone’s speech?” “I think he’s buying a mess of trouble.”

“In what way?”

“You accuse the government of lying, you’re asking for trouble.” “Yes, I suppose so,” said Sabina.

“Of course, my bet is even the Congress doesn’t know about this. Probably just the president, and maybe two or three others, tops.” “Say that again?” demanded Sabina, a sudden tension in her voice.

“Sure,” replied Bartlett. “Your boss is buying a mess of trouble.” “I mean, what does the president know that even Congress doesn’t know?” Suddenly Bartlett got a haunted look around his eyes, which began darting back and forth. “Presidents know lots of things senators and representatives don’t know,” he replied noncommittally. “That’s why they’re presidents.” “What does this particular president know about Sidney Myshko’s flight?” The haunted look became more pronounced. “Who said anything about Myshko’s flight?” “Morgan Blackstone did,” answered Sabina. “That’s what we were talking about.” “We were?”

“And you were about to tell me what you know about it.” “I was?”

“Yes, Mr. Bartlett, you were.”

“Who sent you here, really?”

“Mr. Blackstone.”

“You’re sure?”

“I showed you my credentials before we started talking.” “How do I know they’re legitimate?” he said. “How do I know you’re not working for
The
New York Times
?” “Why would I be working for
The
New York Times
, Mr. Bartlett?” He stared at her again, then sighed deeply. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I mean, hell, they own the Army, and the Army’s got me locked away here.” “You don’t mean
The Times
owns the Army?” “Hell, no. I don’t know what I mean.”

“Then can we talk about the Myshko flight?” persisted Sabina.

“Why don’t we talk about Neil Armstrong’s flight? I mean, that’s the one everyone wants to talk about.” “Not you and me,” said Sabina. “We want to talk about Myshko’s flight. And yours.” The haunted look morphed into a very frightened one. “We do?” “We do.”

“All right. But I want a cigarette first.”

“I don’t have any.”

“Get me one, and we’ll talk.”

The picture went dead.

“What happened?” asked Bucky.

“I went out and bummed a cigarette off another patient, since I knew they wouldn’t sell any in the hospital shop, and I was pretty sure the staff wouldn’t be permitted to smoke.” “Makes sense.”

“And when I came back with a cigarette, he’d closed and locked the door.” She looked apologetically at Bucky. “It’s my fault, sir. I forgot that he wasn’t sick, that it was more like protective custody. It never occurred to me that of course he could walk across the room and lock the door.” “There shouldn’t have been a lock on the inside, not in a hospital,” said Gloria.

“Unless the army wanted one,” said Bucky. “They could probably have rigged a dead bolt in ten minutes’ time. It wasn’t done with you in mind, Sabina; it was in case any members of the press got through, maybe disguised as an orderly.” “So is the video useful?” asked Sabina anxiously.

“Extremely,” said Bucky. “He as much as admitted something happened up there. We’ll give him a day or two to realize the sky isn’t falling in on him, and then try again. You did good, Sabina.” “Thank you, sir,” she said. Then: “What do you think really happened up there?” “Just what I said the other night,” replied Bucky. “I think Myshko was the first man on the Moon.” He grimaced. “Most people think I’m crazy, which is their privilege. What bothers me is that the ones who believe me haven’t asked the most important question.” “And what is that?” asked Sabina curiously.

“
Why
was Sidney Myshko the first man on the Moon?”