The two men regarded each for a moment. “I’m not trespassing,” the younger man said at last. “I was invited here.”
“By whom?”
“Dr. J. Jackson Jackson.”
“Why?”
“I . . . I’m a writer. My name’s Douglas Walker. I’m working on a book about the first American manned spaceflight.”
“The Lucky Linda mission.” A last drag from the cigar, then the old man dropped it on the ground and carefully ground it out beneath his shoe. “I assume you’ve already done much of your research, so you’re already aware of most of the facts, hmm?”
“Well . . . I’ve tried to do my best, but I need to learn more.”
The old man’s dark eyes locked on like a missile seeking a target. “Then you’ve come to the right place because, if you don’t recognize me, then you don’t know a damn thing.”
Walker’s face became ashen. For several moments he was unable to speak. “Oh my God,” he murmured at last. “Dr. Jackson, I’m so sorry, I . . .”
“I certainly hope so.” Jackson glared at the writer. “If you do this badly with someone who’s been waiting for you for the last half hour, my colleagues are going to chew you up and spit you out.”
“I’m sorry I’m late. I had to stop to get directions. And I didn’t recognize you at all.”
Jackson smiled slightly. “I can’t really fault you either way, I suppose. A bear would get lost in this neck of the woods. As for the other”—he sighed and shook his head—“well, astronauts make TV commercials while engineers get a fuzzy group photo. And since we’ve only been in touch with each other through e-mail . . .”
He didn’t finish the thought but instead picked up an onyx-headed walking stick resting against the bench and used it to slowly push himself to his feet. Walker rushed forward to help him, but Jackson waved him off. The old man was too proud to accept any assistance, but nonetheless he smiled and shook Walker’s hand.
“Well, c’mon then.” Jackson began shuffling toward the lodge’s back door. “Lunch will be starting soon. You’re in time for this, at least. Once we’ve chowed down, you can have that interview you came for.”
“Is the rest of the team here?” Walker fell in beside him, matching his slow pace.
“Yes . . . or what’s left of us, anyway.”
=====
The picnic table had been set by the time Walker and Dr. Jackson got there. Covered by checkered tablecloths, it seemed as if every spare inch was taken by platters of food: not just hamburgers and hot dogs, but also fried chicken, potato salad, corn on the cob, baked beans, turnip greens, corn bread, coleslaw . . . everything one might expect at a summer holiday feast. Sweating pitchers of homemade ice tea had been put out, with bowls of sugar cubes in easy reach if anyone cared to sweeten theirs. No one would walk away from the table hungry.
Although there was plenty of room for everyone, Walker soon discovered that it was not easy to find a seat. Little cardboard placards had been strategically set up at each place setting, identifying the person who’d be sitting there. When Walker looked closer, he noticed that beneath each name, printed in smaller letters, was another name: one of the ten men who belonged to the 390 Group. Since most of the people there were second- or third-generation descendants—children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, along with a few cousins or distant relatives—their surnames were often not the same as those of the team members.
Thus, when Walker finally located an unclaimed seat near the center of the table, he discovered that he was sitting across from David and Eileen Kisk; the second name on their cards was Robert H. Goddard, and once Walker began talking to them, he discovered that David Kisk was related to Goddard’s wife, Esther. Which made sense: the Goddards themselves never had children. To his left were Gerry Mander’s granddaughter and her fiancé, and to his right were Omar Bliss’s stepson Ronald and his children, with Ron Bliss nearly the oldest person at the table.
But not quite. Surrounded by their families, J. Jackson Jackson and Henry Morse occupied the seats of honor at opposite ends of the table. Both were in their nineties, and although they appeared to be in good health for men approaching their centennial years, Walker noted that their relatives took pains to make sure that they were comfortable. Beach umbrellas had been placed beside their chairs to shade them from the midday sun, and neither of them had to reach for food; platters magically appeared at their request.
Lloyd Kapman was nowhere in sight. When Walker asked where he was, Ron Bliss told him that the elderly chemist—the team member who’d spotted Silver Bird that fateful morning seventy years ago—was confined to a wheelchair and could no longer come down to the beach. He had his own table in the lodge, with his family keeping him company.
“Don’t worry,” Ron said quietly, “you’ll get to meet him later.” He shared a knowing look with the Kisks and Melanie Mander. “When they tell the Great and Secret Story.”
The others smiled, but no one explained what he meant by this remark.
As lunch went on, it became clear that everyone there knew everyone else. There was a lot of catching up, with news being traded about what they’d been doing lately. The conversation was light, with nothing being said about June 1, 1943. And yet Walker couldn’t help but notice that, from the opposite ends of the long table, J. Jackson Jackson and Henry Morse often glanced in each other’s direction. And when one man caught the other man’s eye, an enigmatic smile passed between them. It might have simply been the shared pleasure of two old men who’d lived long enough to be feted by their families, but Walker wondered if there was something deeper, a secret no one else was allowed to share.
The meal ended informally after ice cream was served, with people getting up and leaving the table to carry their paper plates and plastic utensils to trash barrels. Walker was surprised; he’d been expecting someone to stand and deliver a speech commemorating the historic events that brought them all here. But there was nothing of the sort. A handful of women start clearing the table. A volleyball materialized from somewhere and began to be batted back and forth among the kids, who were obviously itching to divide up on either side of the nearby net. Several people strolled down to the dock to have a smoke, courteously distancing themselves from those who didn’t share their habit. But no speeches, no ceremonies. Flag-waving and breast-beating had no place here.
Jackson and Morse were the last to leave the table. Escorted by their families, they slowly made their way toward the lodge. Still confused by all this, Walker approached Jackson again, just before his grandchildren helped him climb the short flight of steps leading to the back porch.
“Pardon me, Dr. Jackson?” The writer tried to be as polite as possible, but he was becoming anxious. “About the interview . . . is it possible I can speak with you and the others this afternoon before . . . ?”
“Come with me to the living room,” Jackson said. “You’ll get your interview there.”
The back porch ran the length of the lodge’s ground floor, its tall screen windows looking out over Lake Monomonac. A long oak table nearly as big as the one they’d just left stood in the middle of the porch, wooden benches on either side. Crock-Pots and empty trays showed that it had served as a way station between the kitchen and the picnic site, but at one end there was something else: the bent and waterlogged remains of a model rocket, its plastic nose cone open to reveal a small white parachute that had been removed from the casing.
Carl was seated at the table, studying an iPad. Its screen depicted a departure-angle view of the launch, footage captured by a tiny digital camera that had been aboard the rocket and downloaded into the tablet. Again and again, the beach fell away below the rocket during its brief flight, the lake becoming visible for a few seconds before the images came to an abrupt end. As Jackson and Morse walked by, Morse paused to gaze over the boy’s shoulder.
“Well?” he asked. “
Any conclusions?”
“I didn’t fit the nose cone correctly. And the engine didn’t fire long enough.” Carl shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. It’ll never fly again.”
“Then you build another one, and next time you learn from your mistakes.” Morse smiled. “That’s what Bob Goddard taught me, back when he and I . . .”
“Grandpa,” Ellen said from his elbow, “if you’re going to start in on your war stories, then take it into the living room. We need to clean up here.”
“Quite right.” Morse clapped a hand on his great-grandson’s shoulder. “All right, sir . . . let’s go see what everyone else is up to.” Smiling, he bent slightly to add in a stage whisper, “We’re going to tell the Great and Secret Story.”
This was the second time Walker had heard this particular phrase. Everyone seemed to know what it meant except him. Yet Carl was indifferent. “I’ve heard it before,” he murmured, looking down again at his broken model.
“You have?” Morse stared at him in shock, not knowing what to make of this. “When?”
“The last couple of times we’ve been out there.”
Straightening up, Morse looked at his granddaughter. Ellen sadly nodded, confirming what her son just said. Morse frowned in disgust and stamped away from the table, heading for a glass-fronted door at the other end of the porch.
“Really?” He harrumphed in disgust. “Can’t anyone keep a military secret anymore?”
This provoked laughter from everyone in earshot. “Look who’s talking!” Jackson yelled at his friend’s back. “What about Doris?”
“Now, don’t you talk about my grandmother,” Ellen said as she opened the door for her grandfather.
“Mom?” Carl looked over his shoulder at her. “Is Dad coming?”
“I don’t think so, hon.” Ellen had a hand on her grandfather’s arm and was guiding him through the door. “He’s still away on his business trip. Now come inside . . . please.”
The living room took up most of the lodge’s ground floor. Paneled with dark, well-aged oak, there was a fieldstone fireplace at one end, with the inevitable moose head peering down from above the mantel. The hardwood floor was covered with handmade rugs, and although there were plenty of couches and overstuffed armchairs, with two sturdy rockers near the fireplace, metal folding chairs had been brought in to accommodate everyone. The walls were lined with old framed photographs; as Walker passed them, he noticed that the men in the pictures were the subjects of his book, taken in this place when they were young . . . when some, in fact, were younger than he was today.
That isn’t what drew his attention, though, but rather the man seated in the wheelchair parked between the two rockers. Lloyd Kapman was the oldest surviving member of the 390 Group; from his research, Walker knew that he’d turn one hundred in September. If he lasted so long; Kapman was even more frail than Morse or Jackson, and there was a plastic line leading from his nose to an oxygen tank strapped to the back of his wheelchair. Walker was surprised that he was even here. His home in Concord, Massachusetts, was only a couple of hours away, but even that distance was considerable for someone his age.
“How you doing there, Lloyd?” J. Jackson Jackson asked, as he and Henry Morse shuffled slowly to the rocking chairs. “Get enough to eat?”
Lloyd looked up at Jackson with sagging eyes and nodded. “My uncle had a good lunch,” replied a rotund, middle-aged man standing beside him. “He particularly enjoyed the turnip greens . . . didn’t you, Uncle Lloyd?” he added, raising his voice almost to a shout.
Kapman turned his head slightly to gaze at his nephew, and it seemed to Walker that he was quietly annoyed by the younger man’s patronage. “Someone . . . get me a cheeseburger,” he said softly, his voice an airless wheeze. “And a beer, too.”
“Sounds good to me.” Morse carefully lowered himself into a rocker. “Carl, run down to the cooler and fetch us a couple of beers. And get one for yourself, too.”
“Grandpa!”
“Dr. Kapman, I’m Douglas Walker.” Stepping closer, the writer offered his hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, and I appreciate you taking your time to . . .”
“Speak louder!” Kapman snapped, barely touching Walker’s hand.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Lloyd,” Jackson said. “Turn up your hearing aid.”
“What?” Kapman glared at him. “What? I can’t hear you.”
“Wait a sec.” Jackson reached to Lloyd’s head, touched a tiny plastic unit behind his ear. “How’s that?”
“Oh, yes . . . that’s better.” Kapman nodded gratefully. “Thanks, Jack.”
“You’re welcome, you old coot,” Jackson murmured as he sat down.
“What?”
Henry Morse chuckled, and everyone else who’d witnessed this exchange politely hid their smiles behind their hands. Jackson turned to Walker. “Go on, Mr. Walker. You were saying . . . ?”
“Yes, right . . . of course.” Walker found a seat in the nearest armchair and opened his shoulder bag. “As I was saying, I’d like to thank all of you for taking the time to speak with me. I realize these reunions are very special for you, and I’m grateful that you’ve allowed me to attend. It’s the only chance I’ll have to interview all three of you at once, so . . .”
“Who . . . cleared you?” Kapman asked.
“Pardon me?”
“Who . . . gave you . . . security clearance?”
Walker started to laugh, but a sidelong glance at the two other men told him that this was a serious question. In fact, none of the people in the room—several relatives had followed them from the lawn, with more still coming in—seemed to think that Lloyd Kapman’s query about security clearance was strange at all.
“No one did, Dr. Kapman,” he replied. “They don’t have to. I mean, the Lucky Linda mission is a matter of public record. Nothing about it is classified anymore. Everyone knows what happened seventy years ago.”
“Not true.” Kapman slowly shook his head. “That’s . . . not true.”
“Lloyd is correct,” Jackson said before Walker could object. “There are several aspects of Blue Horizon that remain secret to this day. Only the three of us”—Ellen pointedly cleared her throat—“and the people in this room who’ve come to our previous reunions know the full story.”
“And we should keep it that way!” Kapman said angrily, then choked back a hacking cough. His nephew moved to comfort him, but the old man impatiently shook off his hand. “Cut it out, Tommy,” he muttered. “I’m not . . . dying today.” He took a couple of deep breaths from his oxygen tube, regained his wind, and went on. “I mean it. What . . . business do we have, breaking . . . silence?” He gestured to Walker. “If we let him . . . put it all in his book, then we could . . . compromise national security.”
“Oh, bull.” Henry scowled at his old friend. “It’s been seventy years. What difference does it make now? Every other war secret has been revealed . . . why not this one?”
“He’s got a point,” Jackson said. “We’ve held our tongues long enough. Maybe too long. We’ve told this story to our families so that no one will forget, but maybe it’s time to go on the record.”
“But we’ve signed papers.”
“Aw, c’mon.” Henry rolled his eyes. “My great-grandson has heard this so many times, he’s bored to tears with it.” Remembering Carl, he glanced at the porch door. “What’s keeping that beer, anyway?”
“Gentlemen, please . . .” Walker held up a hand. “I’m only trying to get the facts straight. The research I’ve done so far tells me that there are empty places in the historical narrative, details other writers either overlooked or have never been told. The three of you were there. You’re the only ones who know.”
“You’re right.” Jackson nodded. “We’re the last of the 390 Group. Gerry, Ham, Taylor, Colonel Bliss . . .”
“Bob,” Henry a
dded quietly, sadly.
“Bob Goddard . . . they’re all gone. And I don’t think we’ve got too many years left in front of us either.”
“Not even that . . . Jack Cube,” Lloyd added, a sly smile on his face.
Jackson regarded him with astonishment. “You haven’t called me that in years.”
“Called you what?” Walker asked.
“Never mind.” Jackson shook his head. “Inside joke.”
Lloyd’s smile faded. “Maybe you’re . . . right. It’s time to . . . spill the beans.”
“Hear hear.” Henry tapped his cane against the floor. “Besides, what are they going to do? Throw us in jail?”
Walker refrained from letting out his breath with relief. “So, now that we have that settled . . .” He reached into his bag and pulled out a small digital recorder and a notebook. “Where do you want to start? In Worcester? Or Roswell?”
“No. Not Worcester, not New Mexico, and not here either.” Henry closed his eyes, as if taking himself back in time. “Long before any of us came on the scene, there was Germany . . .”
“Wernher von Braun, yes.” Kapman’s mouth pursed together. “Him and Dornberger . . . and Goering, and Sanger.”
“Uh-huh, yeah . . . and Hitler.” Henry frowned. “Goddamn Adolf Hitler.”
THE WOLF’S LAIR
AUGUST 20, 1941
The Mercedes-Benz cabriolet moved through the forest, the small Nazi flags mounted above its front fender signifying its status as an official vehicle. Just ahead, two soldiers on motorcycles acted as escorts; without them, the touring car would have had to stop at every checkpoint along the road. Even so, it slowed down whenever it came upon one of the Panzers parked along the roadside, if only to let the soldiers of the elite Führer Escort Battalion render stiff-armed salutes.
In the backseat, Dr. Wernher von Braun tried to assuage his nervousness by gazing through the closed windows at the towering black conifers that darkened the forest floor. He idly wondered how many different species of birds inhabited the Masurian woods of East Prussia; owls, no doubt, but probably also eagles, falcons, and other raptors that preyed upon the rabbits and squirrels that populated this dense, remote forest. Yet every time the Mercedes-Benz passed another tank, or he caught another glimpse of an antiaircraft gun hidden beneath camouflage nets, he was reminded that the woodland’s deadliest inhabitants walked on two legs.
V-S Day: A Novel of Alternate History Page 3