She looked over at her father’s photograph. “I never knew him to lie. And he wasn’t the kind of man who’d get carried away by his imagination. I really wish he were here today. I’d like to ask him to explain it.” —Jerry never learned how Mary found out about his visit to Sparrows Point. “But I want us to stay out of it, Jerry. Is that clear?” She was parked behind her desk, pushed back in her chair, her eyes full of anger.
Jerry didn’t do well in confrontations with superiors. With anybody, for that matter. He was inclined to be polite and agreeable. “I’ve been careful,” he said.
“You mean the reporter who gave you the story wasn’t the one who told you where the daughter lived?” “Well, yes. In fact he was.”
“So the press knows we’re trying to find out what this woman knows, right?” “Well, Ralph knows.”
“And Ralph’s employer is—?”
“Okay. So I guess I screwed up.”
“Jerry, they haven’t gone with the story yet. But you can be sure your buddy would like to know why we’re interested.” “I told him it was a false alarm.”
“Of course you did. And that’s why you wanted to talk to the daughter, right?” She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together. “You might as well have told him we’re doing a cover-up. That something really did happen.” Jerry tried to look like a guy who’d been caught in an impossible situation. “He called me. I didn’t go to him.” “What difference does it make?”
“All right.”
“Don’t touch it again, Jerry. You understand me? If anything else comes up, check with me. I’ll handle it.” —Staying out of it might not be easy. Jerry got a call that afternoon from a woman who identified herself as Cary Blankenship. Cary was in her eighties, but she still radiated energy. She was seated in a lawn chair in front of a potted tree. “I used to work for NASA,” she said. “I was only a technician. I did pretty routine stuff. But I remember something that always seemed odd.” “What was that, Cary?”
“Just before the Moon flights, the landings, they had something called the Cassandra Project. Don’t know what it was. It was a big secret. Very hush-hush.” “Did you ever find out what it was about?”
“No. In fact, we weren’t even supposed to know there was such a thing.” “So why’s that odd?”
“Because we didn’t normally do secret stuff. I mean, the equipment, sure. A lot of that was classified. But missions? That just didn’t happen. We were pretty public. Some of the technology was classified, but having a project that nobody wanted to talk about, that was a first. Well, not quite a first, but it was unusual. Later, when we were involved launching spy satellites and stuff, things changed. But it wasn’t like that in 1969.” “Cassandra was a mission?”
“I wouldn’t swear to it, but I sure had that impression.”
—
Jerry ran a search, but no reference to a NASA Cassandra Project showed up. He decided it was of no consequence and had just gone back to work when he got a call from Brian Colson, the host of The Brian Colson Show. “Jerry,” he said, “how are you doing?” A chill ran down Jerry’s spine. No way this could be anything other than bad news. “Fine, Brian. What can I do for you?” Colson was a big, intimidating guy. His show was billed as news and opinion, but mostly it consisted of his launching attacks on politicians he didn’t like, or even ones he did, or at least claimed to. It was hard to guess why anyone went on his show. But Jerry figured that if you could stand up to Colson, you could win a lot of points with the party bosses and even with the voters. And, of course, you also went on if you had a book to sell. “Jerry, we’re having one of your friends on tonight.” He paused, probably to give Jerry a chance to fill in the name.
Jerry resisted the impulse. “Who’s that, Brian?”
“Ralph D’Angelo. That’s an interesting story about Aaron Walker’s journal. The Sun will be going with it tomorrow.” A chill ran down Jerry’s spine. “I can’t see a story there anywhere, Brian.” “You think Walker was just making it up? Maybe drinking or something?” “About what?”
“Come on, Jerry. Do you want me to read you what he says?”
“I don’t know, Brian. He must have been joking. He was probably doing what we all do, making up something he wished had happened.” “Good enough. You want to come on the show tonight and say that?” Turn up on The Brian Colson Show tonight and go looking for a new job tomorrow. “It’s not worth the time, Brian. Mine or yours. Not that I wouldn’t enjoy talking about current projects. But this Aaron Walker story—” “No reason we can’t talk about some of the current stuff you’re working on.” “Brian, thanks, but I have to pass. I’m buried at the moment.”
“You know what really rings my bell about this, Jerry?” It was an expression he used all the time on his show. Everything rang his bell. “When he said, ‘Oops, forgot I’m not supposed to say that.’” —Jerry told Mary about the invitation and warned her that The Sun would be running the story.
She took it well. “Can’t say I’m surprised,” she said. “Well, you did the right thing. Probably. Staying off the show.” Jerry thought about calling Amos Bartlett, the lone surviving member of Walker’s crew. But an online blogger had already asked him about the mission, about whether they’d gone down to the surface. He’d denied the story. Moreover, if Jerry followed up, it would very likely get back to Mary.
—
He skipped dinner that evening. He wasn’t hungry, and it was just as well. He could stand to lose a pound or two. He retreated to his condo and opened all the windows. It was a cool, pleasant evening, and he needed to hear the distant rumble of the sea. That soothing sound tended to put everything in perspective. He understood quite clearly that Neil Armstrong had been the first man to set foot on the Moon. Everything else was an urban legend. But it was precisely the kind of story the media love to feed on.
He watched the news. Watched an episode of The Shadow, a guilty pleasure that allowed him to escape reality for an hour. Then, at eight, he switched over to Colson.
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 pi
lot 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.”
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