Bobby smiled warmly. “Ok, send them in. Let’s see what secrets are hidden in these walls.”
“Watch out for your own secrets, John. I am serious. I don’t have many ideas left that would keep Hoover’s mouth shut.”
“You’ll figure something out, Bobby, I’m sure.”
“Don’t make my job more difficult than it already is.”
***
Meanwhile, Argon had a meeting of his own. Like Bobby Kennedy, he was also worried about John’s health. Not only had John had one of the strongest pre-oscillation results, but now he held an important office. Controlling a U.S. President whose life was already monitored was easier than someone Unkari did not monitor for oscillation. The Unkari medical specialist Korem-Atoo walked into Argon’s office. “How is he holding up?”
“He is pushing his body to the limits. Honestly, I wouldn’t give him as much as three years.”
“Is Jacobson cooperative?”
“As usual. No questions asked. You’d be surprised what he can do given enough of their currency.”
“My concern is that since he is in the office, they may scrutinize his blood and discover the nanites.”
“Yes, that’s a problem. Should I involve more doctors?”
“Doctors are snoopy. Let’s avoid them if we can. Maybe someone on his secret service staff?”
“Hmm…”
Korem-Atoo sprayed two faint puffs of lilac powder in the air.
“How about his Vice President, Johnson?”
“He was chasing our shadow for years now, through the Senate Armed Forces Committee and the Blue Book… Korem-Atoo, I don’t know if he can handle the truth.”
“Look, Argon. If John Kennedy dies, which according to my scans is highly likely, Lyndon Johnson will take over. We need to bury the space race and the Project Blue Book. It is getting out of control. This guy, Hynek, is running around as a converted believer, and I tell you, he is a pain in the tentacles. He asks a lot of questions.”
“Lyndon Johnson is a screw-loose. I cannot trust him. He is not like this doctor, Jacobson. Money is of no interest to him.”
“I have an idea. How about a subconscious influence? We can record some protocols to his brain about what to do if Kennedy dies, and what to do about the Blue Book.”
“I like the idea in general. But the implementation may be challenging.”
“Well, as Vice President, he flies a lot, so we can access him in the air.”
“Alright, see to it. Just get a good coder for this. We don’t want to make him do something ridiculous. He has too much power now.”
JULY 27, 1969.
THE OVAL OFFICE
Seven days after the Moon landing, President Nixon held a top-secret briefing. A yellow manila folder on his desk with the ‘Classified Eyes Only’ stamp contained a single typed page. It read:
Agenda:
1. Apollo 11. Missing minutes. Aliens warn us against pursuing further Moon exploration.
2. Dismantling of the Blue Book Project.
3. Diversion tactics to discredit public UFO claims.
4. DARPA’s progress on reverse-engineering the Roswell UFO.
Nixon checked his clock – five minutes till the briefing. “John, I wish you were here, buddy. You won the Moon race, but apparently, this is where we stop.” Years had passed since Kennedy’s tragic death, and he still missed him. Yes, now that he was dead, he could simply miss him, in the purest sense, without being jealous and angry. Those feelings meant nothing anymore.
In fact, now he could have used John’s take on what the hell was going on.
Who was the real enemy?
It was clear as hell that the Soviets had nothing to do with it.
Then the 1952 early morning phone call came to his mind. The L.A. incident. The DC incident. Now this Iranian incident, with many more in between. They were here. Who were they?
Nobody knew. Humans had played catch up with them, and DARPA had made some spectacular progress on the craft downed in 1947, at bloody Roswell, New Mexico. A butt of the joke to most Americans, Roswell was no joking matter among a small group of scientists and generals possessing the highest clearance. The UFO that had crashed on that sheep ranch had scared everyone, but it also motivated them to continue to work, as if racing an invisible wind.
And not just any wind - an interstellar one.
5
A MAN WHO SAVED THE WORLD
-1-
Vasya watched a giant fly cruising across the dusty classroom. That particular fly was surprisingly noisy; one might even think it was a bumblebee. The fly had no idea it was violating Valentina Ivanovna’s biggest taboo: no humming in class. Every one of the 30 kids in that classroom, Vasya included, were mortified to upset their teacher, because she was known for summoning parents to school. The fly apparently did not care about the rules. Vasya admired the fly: it had wings, and the wings gave it courage. For a seventh-grader like Vasya, a math exam was a big deal. He was old enough to understand social pressure and the need to do well, yet still a child to see the difference between merely an exam and a life-and-death situation. Despite the pressure to perform, Vasya Arkhipov was a surprisingly lazy kid, at least according to his mother. She often said that Vasya walked with his head stuck in clouds.
Vasya himself knew that he was a strange child, but had no idea why. Take his school as an example. Vasya rarely did his homework, but his exams always came out straight A’s. Like today. Valentina Ivanovna had a stack of graded exam papers on her desk, and she looked grim. She sat down at her desk, planted huge glasses at the bridge of her nose, and with the panache of the entire Communist Party behind her authority, she took the top paper from the stack and proclaimed. “Samoylov! Dva!” Samoylov facepalmed and tried his best not to cry. “Litvinova. Tri!” Litvinova, a tall lanky girl with braided hair and freckles that looked like red pepper flakes, folded her arms with a ferocious expression over her face. A “C”! Nothing to brag about. At some point, it was Vasya’s turn.
“Vasenka Arkhipov…” The teacher’s face melted in a cheesy grin. “Dushenka. Pyaterka!”
An “A”. No, he wasn’t cheating, not in a usual sense. But he didn’t study for the exam either. Vasya’s school was located several villages away from his house. Every day Vasya walked 30 minutes to the bus stop, then hopped on the bus with a bunch of farmers and school kids, and rode for another 30 minutes to the village where the school was located. Then together with the school gang, he merrily trotted for another 15 minutes to the school courtyard. After the classes, they retraced the route back home. That day, after the math final results came in, the 7-A class was not in the mood. A lot of the kids would be grounded, or worse, beaten up. And every sober and caring parent in every home would be bringing up the forsaken Vasya’s “A”. Vasya’s “A” was like a salt on a sore wound to every one of his classmates. Dima, who was sitting a few rows behind Vasya, looked at his “F”-graded paper with contempt. That summer he was supposed to receive a new pair of shoes, not a hand-me-down from someone in the neighborhood, but a brand-new pair from the market, but this “F” turned those dreams to ashes.
With venom in his heart, Dima crumbled the hated paper and catapulted it at Vasya’s head. Dima was very good at throwing things, and the paper hit the target as intended. Next moment, a swarm of paper balls were launched at Vasya, causing an all-bus riot. The bus driver looked at his mirror and saw that the situation was getting out of control. He slam-jammed the breaks and yelled at the passengers to get out. “If you don’t want to ride the bus like civil members of society… walk like the savages that you are! Get the hell out of my bus, you ublyudki.” The crowd immediately calmed down and everyone returned to their seats. “Wait a minute, you little pricks! You think this is it? Who’s going to clean up the mess? If you want to ride the bus, you must pick every scrap of paper and stuff
it in your pockets. Litter in your own house, ublyudki.” The kids obeyed and got down on their fours, crawling on the bus floor and picking up the mess. Down on the floor, Dima and Vasya met head to head. Dima sucker-punched Vasya ever so slightly, just to make a point that he was not over the whole thing.
“So how did you know the answers?”
“I saw them in a dream…” Vasya mumbled hesitantly.
“In a dream??!” Lena, Dima’s sister, who was crawling on the floor next to the guys, was not buying it. Dima was about to punch Vasya again, but the bus driver announced that they were taking off and requested everyone in their seats. Lena and Dima sat behind Vasya, fully intended to continue tormenting him. “What do you mean, in a dream?” Lena would not give up. “Boys are such liars!”
“Not all boys!” protested Dima.
“Most of them are! Vasya is the biggest liar there is! And a cheater!” insisted Lena. “I saw him from my window for the whole week. He was always out and about, and that’s before the final exam. I guarantee you he did not pick up a textbook even once!”
Vasya wanted to protest, but Lena was right. He had hardly opened the textbook. He had great memory and remembered everything that was taught in class, but when it came to homework, he just couldn’t find any time to attend to it. His daddy was on another drunken binge, and it was time for spring gardening campaign. Mom was working all day on a collective farm, trying to meet her quota, but dad, who was granted a disability pension, could in fact attend to their own garden, but he drank like a horse. Especially in spring, when it was a critical time for work. In winter he managed to sober up and became more present, spent time with the family, but every time the pressure of a deadline was on a horizon, he would drink himself into a stupor. With mom being busy at the collective farm, the task of planting spring veggies was all on Vasya. “Look, Lena, you are right. I did not read the textbook, ok? That’s nice that both of your parents are tending to your farm. If I wasn’t planting potato the week before the exam, what would we eat all winter? My grades?”
Vasya was shaken. It was embarrassing to even imply that his dad was an alcoholic. “Ok, how did you know the answers to the test then? And don’t give me the dream nonsense.”
“I… how can I explain…? It’s like as if I remembered making a mistake, getting my test graded, with all the mistakes corrected, and then writing it again. In my memory, I have access to all the times when I made the wrong choices on the test, hundreds of times…”
“That makes no sense.” Dima was annoyed. “Are you saying that Valentina Ivanovna allowed you to take the test multiple times?”
“No, not at all. I took the test only once, with you guys. But I have memory as if I took it multiple times. Like as if I had a dream…”
“Who do you think I am? A clown?” Dima burst out in rage. At that moment, he could care less if he had to walk home, but he needed to teach this punk a lesson. He grabbed Vasya’s collar with his left, and with his right fist delivered a punch straight in Vasya’s nose.
The lights went out.
-2-
Vasya opened his eyes. He was still on the bus. Lena and Dima were sitting behind him, looking severely pissed off. The bus was slowly taking off after all the trash was collected and the kids were settled in their seats. “So how did you know the answers?” Dima’s voice brought Vasya back to reality. The memory of a nose punch was so vivid. But did it really happen?
Vasya was not going to take a chance. “I studied at night, with candles, ok?”
“Nerd,” Lena fired at him. “Boys are such nerds. And you are the worst, Vasya!”
Bitter, Vasya broke eye contact with Lena. For a moment, he concentrated on a fly buzzing on the bus window, trapped, and probably just as bitter as Vasya himself. He sniveled and rubbed under his nose. Wet drip-off smeared over his fingers, when Lena yelped:
“Vasya, you are bleeding!”
Vasya looked at his palm - it was covered in red blood.
Not again, he thought. How embarrassing!
He straightened up in his seat, tilted his head back and squeezed his nostrils with the tips of his fingers to stop the bleeding. “What is it back there again?” yelled the bus driver.
“His nose is bleeding!” Lena yelled back.
“What did you do to him, you little pricks?”
“We did nothing, swear!” Dima protested.
“Well, don’t get any on the seats. Get him a handkerchief or something…”
Vasya made it home looking miserable and bloody. His face, shirt, and palms were stained with dry brown blood. Mom greeted him with a hug. “Oh dear, the nose bleeds again?”
“Yeah, ma. It’s nothing. Probably just the nerves about the exam.”
“How was it?”
“An “A.” Of course.”
“Good for you! At least someone has a future here. Keep it up, and you may save the world one day. You can become a doctor or a teacher.”
“I want to be a pilot, ma.”
“A pilot, you say. Alright then. Pilot it is, dear. Go straighten up. The lunch is on the stove.”
-3-
Vasya did not become a pilot. By the age of 18, he wore glasses and could not pass the physical for the Air Force. But he was otherwise a remarkable recruit: excellent memory, cool-headed demeanor, and attention to detail off the chart. He was physically fit as well, especially in martial arts. Without any formal training, it was as if he anticipated every punch, and skillfully avoided it. Vasya’s blood work revealed that he was slightly anemic and with low blood sugar. Together with the assignment to the Navy, Vasya was prescribed an extensive nutrition regiment: extra butter, liver sausages, and a special treat: GEMATOGEN, a blood candy, that tasted remotely like caramel and contained blood product to increase red blood cell count. Blood or not blood, the candy tasted good for the marines with limited menu, and Vasya could trade two packs of cigarettes for each candy bar. It was a good trade: cigarettes were a universal currency in the Soviet army.
-4-
Years later… Vasiliy Arkhipov’s transfer to the K-19 submarine was one hell of a promotion. K-19 was a remarkable piece of engineering. It was a one of a kind nuclear submarine, that superseded the American USS Nautilus in speed, in submergence depth, and in nuclear ballistic missile range. Also, it was original in every way: for a change, no stolen American blueprints were used. Compared to the diesel submarines, the nuclear ones could spend an unlimited time underwater without the need to surface for recharging the batteries. That gave the Soviet subs a critical advantage: they were nearly impossible to detect, especially when they skillfully navigated the isothermal layers of the sea to cloak the submarine from the enemy sonars.
It was only appropriate to commission K-19 for its first mission on July 4, 1961, when the U.S. was celebrating their Independence day. It was Khruschev’s way of saying: “Not so fast! That Independence of yours is an evolving situation.” Or perhaps it was Khruschev’s way to tally the score of the Vienna Summit, so that there was no ambiguity in the court of public opinion as to who had won that battle. The K-19 had remarkable potential, but its execution was rushed. When Arkhipov was assigned to the K-19 as a deputy commander, it was still all the rage and fanfare. However, behind the scenes, K-19’s construction seemed a harbinger of bad tidings. Despite all the construction deaths and freak accidents it took to get her out of the dry dock, in public consciousness they were not yet welded to her hull, as grim medals to the Soviet disregard for human lives.
Arkhipov’s tour of the submarine was delivered by excited and ambitious technical officers, who happily pointed out all sorts of gimmicks and gadgets, as they proceeded to her nuclear heart.
“Well, that’s about it!” pointed the technician to Archipov when they reached the nuclear reactor. “Shall we inspect the mess hall now?” Speechless, Arkhipov recounted all the compartments he saw, and at
no point did he notice any essential spare modules: air circulation filters, engines, and even the nuclear reactor’s cooling system. Failure of any of these elements during the mission would mean sure death of the entire crew.
“What do you mean, that’s it! Where do you keep the spare parts?”
“We don’t have spares. I mean we have some tools and bolts, but no major spare modules, if that’s what you mean, Sir.”
“But I looked over the specks. We should have had the spares for most of the life-support systems and essential equipment…”
“Yes, indeed, deputy commander. But see, each detail is custom made. There is no part of this boat that could be mass-produced. They only had enough time to create one set of each element, just enough to equip this baby. But sir, fear not. This baby is the best thing the Soviet Union ever produced! It will outlast all of us!”
They must be out of their mind, though Arkhipov but kept his mouth shut. “Alright, walk me to the mess hall, officer.”
“Great! Commander Zateyev is expecting us!”
-5-
Arkhipov was in the control room when he received a report about a problem in the nuclear reactor section. “What is the nature of the problem, officer?” he enquired over the intercom.
“The reactor coolant system is failing, sir.”
“What do you mean, failing? The mission had just begun!”
“Sir… the reactor’s hull is breached, and we are losing pressure. We are not sure what exactly caused the breach.”
“What’s the prognosis?”
“Sir…” The officer’s voice crackled.
“Ok, I get it, the end-prognosis is lethal. But when do we reach the critical temperature?”
“Forty minutes. An hour… It all depends if the breach expands and how. If the breach rapidly bursts, sir… We are cooked…”
“…Hello World War III. NATO base is just seventy miles away, they will interpret a nuclear explosion as an act of war,” mumbled Arkhipov. They had to act fast! “Gather the team to seal the breach.”
329 Years Awake Page 9