The Cassandra Project (8 page)

Colson routinely did three segments. On that evening, the first concerned a once-popular actor who insisted on beating his wife, taking drugs, and generally raising hell. He’d thrown a young woman with whom he’d been sleeping through a window several evenings before, then tried to punch out the cops who came for him. His guest was the network’s Hollywood reporter. When they broke for commercial, he advised everyone what was next: Did the Moon landings happen the way we were told? Or is NASA hiding something?

When they came back after the commercials, Ralph was seated across a table from Colson. They were already deep in conversation, none of it audible to the viewer, which was the standard routine. The host raised a hand ostensibly to signal his guest that they were live, faced the camera, and the sound came back. “After fifty years,” he said, “are we hearing a new story about the Moon landings? Our guest this evening is Ralph D’Angelo of
The Baltimore Sun
. Ralph, why are there suddenly doubts about who was first man to land on the Moon? Is it anything we should take seriously?” Ralph laughed. Shook his head. Indicated, before he said a word, that he had no idea where the truth lay. He described the Eastman Award luncheon, and they played the clip of Warren Cole asking about the exchanges between Myshko and Mission Control, played the exchanges themselves, played Myshko’s incomprehensible comment: “We are in the LEM. Ready to go.” And Mission Control’s equally inexplicable “Good luck, guys.”

If they weren’t leaving the capsule, why wish them luck?

Which was exactly the question Colson asked his guest.

Ralph made a face. Shrugged. “It makes no sense, does it, Brian?” They stayed with it for a few minutes, while Colson tried to imagine any context that would explain the exchange. There was none. Then they moved on to the rocks. Jerry’s face became warm. Why hadn’t he kept his mouth shut? “Is there any truth to the story?” “Jerry Culpepper says it happened.”

“So who would be carrying rocks in a space capsule?”

“That
is
strange, isn’t it?” said Ralph.

And finally, to Aaron Walker’s journal. They posted the extract:

. . . forty years since my stroll on the lunar surface. Oops, forgot I’m not supposed to say that. Wonder what that thing was, anyhow?

“What
thing
do you suppose he’s talking about, Ralph?”

“If we could answer that, maybe we could figure out the rest of it, Brian.” “You know,” the host told his audience, “if the journal entry was all there was, I’d write it off as a joke. Or something Aaron Walker wrote after maybe drinking too much. But—” “I know, Brian. We’re beginning to get a pattern.”

“You said you had something else.”

“After the story appeared yesterday, I called a reliable source at NASA.” “And what did your reliable source say?”

“I showed him the journal. He asked me where it had come from. Well, that was Jane Alcott, of course, Aaron Walker’s daughter. And I understand he flew down and went out to talk to her.” “The source did?”

“That’s correct, Brian.”

Colson looked out at his audience. “We invited Ms. Alcott onto the show, but she declined. I should also mention that we asked NASA’s Jerry Culpepper to appear with us here, but he also ducked.” He inhaled. Nobody on the planet could inhale like Colson. “Look, folks,” he said. “We don’t know what’s going on, but something clearly is.” He smiled. “Maybe they sighted aliens on the Moon.” He thanked Ralph for coming in, then turned back to the camera. “Closing out this evening, Senator Jennifer Baxter will talk to us about her bill that would make group marriage legal. Stay with us.” —Everybody at the Space Center must have seen the show, and copies of the
Sun
were everywhere. When Jerry showed up for work next day, some grinned, others looked away, and a few, without going into detail, assured him everything would be all right. Barbara wished him good morning while she tried very hard to behave as if nothing unusual had happened. And Vanessa did her best to stay out of the way.

He did
not
, however, get called into Mary’s office.

He’d been worried that it would morph into another big story, that the morning would be filled with calls from reporters. There were several, but it didn’t become the avalanche he’d feared.

He settled into his routine, putting together a press release on the Heynman telescope, whose launch had been postponed twice. It was now rescheduled for next year, but nobody believed it would actually happen. The Heynman was designed to do spectroscopy in far and extreme ultraviolet spectral range. He wasn’t sure what that meant, but he plugged it in for the media. When it was finished, he sent it to Barbara for distribution to the mailing list and started prepping for the annual Florida Librarians luncheon, which was being held that day in Titusville. Jerry had accepted an invitation to be guest speaker. He half expected Mary to direct him to send Vanessa in his place. But it didn’t happen.

Under normal circumstances, having an audience was just what he would have wanted to bring him out of his funk. But not this time. He sat in his office, staring into a void. After a while, he got up and pulled the blinds against the late-summer sun, which was beating down on the space complex.

Barbara came in. “Did you see
The Herald
today?” she asked.

“No,” he said.
The Herald
was the Titusville newspaper.

She touched the keyboard and made an adjustment. An AP story was headlined:
EARLY SECRET MISSIONS TO THE MOON?
“I thought you’d better know before you went to the luncheon,” she said. Her tone was sympathetic.

“Barb,” he said, “I’d have been surprised if they
weren’t
running it.” He turned it off.

At the luncheon, he would begin by talking about why librarians were essential for an advancing society. That would win over the audience. Then he’d bring in the future. Why we needed a functioning space program. Satellite communications. Navigation. In time, we’d put up energy collectors and use them to provide global power, to get us past this primitive age that was so dependent on fossil fuels. We would also be able to provide protection against asteroids. And, ultimately, there would be Moonbase and Mars. And who knew where we’d go from there?

He pulled an index card out of the box, picked up a marker, and wrote reminders on the card:
CHALLENGES. COMMUNICATIONS. GSP. COLLECTORS. ASTEROIDS. MOONBASE.
And, finally:
KIDS
. He always ended the same way: “I envy the kids being born today. Imagine what they’re going to see during their lifetimes. All that’s needed is for us to make it happen.” That always got a strong reaction. He wished he believed it.

—

The luncheon went smoothly. There were only two questions about the news stories, both suggesting it was impossible to imagine how such an idea could be taken seriously. Jerry, of course, explained that he never ceased to be amazed at what people were willing to believe. “We don’t read enough,” he added. Afterward, he stood talking to several of the librarians, watching the crowd file out. He wasn’t paying much attention to the conversation until one of them, a gray-haired man in a light blue jacket, asked him how it felt to be famous.

“I’m not famous,” he said. He didn’t need any modesty there. He got periodic speaking engagements and showed up on TV occasionally, like for the press conference that had started it all. He’d once believed he might live a life that would warrant an autobiography. But that dream was long past. He’d never really done anything. He’d never lifted off on a mission, never pulled anybody out of a burning building, never served in the military. Once, in high school, he’d driven in the tying runs with two out in the ninth inning of a playoff game. That had been the peak moment of his life.

“Sure you’re famous,” said the man in the blue jacket. He was short, stocky, with a thick waist. He wore a white open-collared shirt with a Tampa Bay Rays logo emblazoned on the pocket. “Modesty, Mr. Culpepper, is, I guess, what we expect of true greatness.” He smiled. Kidding, but he meant it.

On his way back to the Space Center, Jerry thought about it. To most people, he probably did look like a celebrated figure. A man who held press conferences. Rode first class on planes. Appeared as a guest speaker at local luncheons. Look at me, Ma. I’m on top of the world.

He would like to accomplish one thing of significance in his life. Perform one truly memorable act, so that people would remember him. He didn’t need a monument. A footnote would be nice. He’d helped get President Cunningham elected. (Jerry remembered when he was just George.) But that was about it. And who’d remember a political wonk?

Gerald L. Culpepper. The man who revealed the truth about the Moon missions.

The truth. What was the truth?

He knew. Armstrong had been the first man on the Moon. A few other miniscule details were being misinterpreted because they made an interesting story.

And that was all it was.

Amos Bartlett, who’d been Aaron Walker’s command module pilot in 1969, lived outside Los Angeles. Jerry sat a long time staring at the TV. Finally, he decided what the hell and made the call. It rang four or five times, and a woman answered. “Hello,” he said, “is Mr. Bartlett there?” “Just a minute, please.” No on-screen picture. Well, that wasn’t unusual when a stranger was involved. She could, of course, see
him
. “Who should I tell him is calling?” Jerry sighed. This might not go well. “Jerry Culpepper,” he said. “From NASA.” “Okay. Hold on a second.” He heard a door open and close, and the woman’s voice again: “For you, Amos.” Jerry listened to the wind blowing against the side of the building. Tree branches moved. Then the TV picked up a picture of Amos Bartlett. He was close to ninety, but the guy still looked okay. Tall, lean, with a full head of white hair, he could have been on his way out to play a round of basketball. He leaned casually back against a desk top while he gazed at Jerry. “Hello,” he said. “What can I do for you, Mr. Culpepper?” “Mr. Bartlett.” Jerry tried to sound casual. At ease. “I have a couple of questions I’d like to ask.” “Go ahead.” He sounded vaguely hostile.

“You were the command module pilot for Aaron Walker back in ’69.” “Why don’t we cut right to the chase, Mr. Culpepper?”

“Okay.”

“You want to know if anything happened on the lunar flight?”

“That’s correct. Aaron Walker left a note in a journal—”

“I know about the journal.” His voice took on an edge, and his eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what he meant by it, but I can tell you it was a routine flight. Nothing out of the ordinary occurred. Okay? Anything else?” “Why is the question so irritating?”

“Look. I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Culpepper, but I’m sure you understand how silly this is. Do you have anything else?” “Amos. Is it okay if I call you that?”

“What exactly is it you want from me, Mr. Culpepper?”

“If I can get a release for you, will you tell me what happened on that flight?” It was only there for a moment, a brief quiver, teeth sucking his lip, eyes suddenly focused somewhere else. Then he came back. “If you’ve anything serious to ask, I’ll be here.” Bartlett broke the connection.

—

There was no one left at NASA from the 1960s. In fact, Jerry knew of only one person living on the Space Coast who had been part of Agency management when Apollo XI went to the Moon: Richard Cobble, who’d been one of the operational people during the glory years. Cobble, until recently, had been active in a support role, serving with the Friends of NASA, a group of volunteers who helped wherever they could but mostly threw parties. Increasingly, during recent years, they’d taken to talking about the “good old days.” Jerry checked Cobble’s record. He’d arrived at the Agency in 1965 as a technician. Eventually, he’d risen to become one of the operational directors.

“He’s out bowling,” a young, very attractive woman told him. Probably a great-granddaughter. “I’ll let him know you called.” Cobble returned the call just as Jerry was leaving to go home. It was obvious that, wherever he had been, it had had nothing to do with bowling. He was in his mideighties. Unlike Amos Bartlett, he looked it. His eyes had no life left in them, and his shoulders were bent with arthritis. His jaw sagged, and he drooled as he looked out of the TV at Jerry. “How’s life over at the Center?” he asked. “I haven’t been there for a long time.” “It’s quiet,” said Jerry. “Not a whole lot happening.”

“I know. It’s sad. I never thought things would go this way.”

Jerry kept him talking for a few minutes, about the state of space travel, about what might have been. And, when he thought Cobble receptive, he asked about the Myshko and Walker missions. “We keep hearing rumors that they landed in ’69. Before Armstrong. Richard, does that make any sense to you? At all?” “No,” he said. “I can’t imagine why they’d have wanted to do it. I mean, I know that the guys in the ships would have liked to make the landing. But they weren’t going to go down without NASA’s okay. And they didn’t have it. Even assuming one of them had been a maverick, how could they have kept it quiet for a half century? We’ve both worked for the government, Jerry. You know how the government is at keeping secrets.” “Is there any way it could have been done without your knowledge?” Cobble was seated in an armchair. But he didn’t look comfortable. He started to say no, stopped to rearrange himself, and started again. “Look, Jerry, anything’s possible. I wasn’t actually in a position during that year, during ’69, when I had a handle on things. Is it possible they could have done it? Sure, it’s possible, but do I believe it? Why don’t you ask me if I believe in Area 48?” “I think it’s Area
51
, Richard.”

“Whatever.”

“Okay. Thanks. If you think of something, let me know, okay?”

—

Barbara stuck her head in. “Anything else, Jerry?”

“No, Barb,” he said. “See you Monday.”

The phone rang. It was Cobble again. “There
was
one thing, Jerry. There was something back then, I think it was the same year, ’69, they called the Cassandra Project.” “Cassandra?” That was the project Cary Blankenship had referred to.