The NFL needed a spokesman. They’d gone through a series of scandals, and they wanted someone, they said, with a reputation for integrity. He wondered whether they weren’t just looking for somebody to distract the reporters.
Most of the positions would have brought in considerably more money than he’d been making with NASA. But he just couldn’t get excited about moving cars or soft drinks. Or covering for the NFL’s wayward millionaires. The State Department, he suspected, would find a way to send him to Outer Mongolia. Amnesty International sounded good, but the money was minimal.
Josephine Bracken called him as he was getting ready to go out to breakfast. She was with CUES, the Committee to Upgrade Energy Systems. It was another nonprofit. “We need you, Jerry,” she said. Josephine had been an activist for twenty years. “We can’t offer you the kind of money NASA was paying you, but look at the cause you’d be supporting. If we don’t succeed in getting our message out, in getting rid of fossil fuels, the climate will deteriorate to the point there will be massive disasters. It’s just a matter of time. There’s no way we can continue to pour poison into the atmosphere before we get a major reaction.”
“I’d like to help, Jo,” he said, “but if you want the truth, I think people are tired of listening to warnings about the climate. Yes, it’s going downhill. But it’s been a slow process, and the deniers won’t give up until the catastrophe hits. The fact is, nobody cares anymore. Most people don’t even think about it. The problem’s gone invisible.”
“That’s why we need you, Jerry. We need someone to help stir things up.”
“Jo, I’m going to have to pass. I hate to say this, but working with your organization would just be a shortcut to a heart attack. I’ve had enough of lost causes.”
She sighed. “Okay, Jerry. I hope you’ll change your mind. If you do, give me a call, okay?”
—
He felt guilty about that. But he was convinced there’d be no serious effort to deal with the problem until the Atlantic rolled in over downtown Manhattan. He just didn’t need any more frustration in his life. Better to go back into politics. Real politics, that is, the kind where you just find a way to beat the other side and put your guy in office. It was the sort of work he could live with. And, to tell the truth, that he enjoyed.
Jim Tilghman was up for reelection this year. He was running for his second term in the Senate. And he was a decent guy. Someone he could support with a clear conscience. The word was that he was unhappy with the way his campaign was being run. That meant a reorganization would be coming.
Jim was an old friend. If the stories about disarray among the troops were correct, Jerry would probably be hearing from him.
He went to Darby’s for breakfast. It was a nice break. Darby’s was down at Cocoa Beach, overlooking the ocean. He couldn’t eat there on a workday; it was too far out of the way. But it was perfect for a Saturday. Or for somebody no longer gainfully employed. He pulled into a half-empty parking lot. It was already hot, and no breeze came in off the ocean. They were predicting a high over a hundred.
He went inside, decided he wasn’t going to worry about his diet, ordered bacon and eggs and a side of pancakes. Then he sat there, waiting for his breakfast to arrive, looking out over the Atlantic and listening to the rumble of the surf. If Tilghman called, he would accept. Jim was from Pennsylvania, and even though Jerry didn’t know much about the politics in the Keystone State, he was a quick learner.
Maybe this was going to turn out to be a break for him. He’d enjoyed working at NASA, but the reality was that, whatever might happen there, his career had stalled. There’d been nowhere for him to go. If he’d remained at the Space Center for the next two decades, he’d have still been doing the same job.
Jerry wasn’t sure what he wanted to do with his life. He’d been a history major in college and had expected to launch a teaching career. That had seemed natural enough for him. He was one of maybe three kids in the speech class who weren’t terrified of getting up in front of everyone and delivering a few comments on how they’d have responded, say, to the Cuban Missile Crisis. The instructor, Professor Clement, had cited a study tabulating the things that people feared most. Death had come in second. Public speaking led the way.
Jerry, though, was a natural. He loved performing.
Maybe eventually he’d run for office himself. Representative Culpepper from the great state of Ohio. He liked the sound of it.
—
There were more job offers waiting when he got home. He’d received invitations from two talk shows to sign on as a regular panel member. One was the politically oriented Slippery Slopes, but the other was Dark Energy, on the Science Channel. He wished he had the background to do the Science Channel, but he’d get lost as soon as they started talking about quantum mechanics or string theory.
There were a couple of feelers from politicians, both in Ohio, both in local races.
But if he was going to get back into politics, he might as well go for the top. Rather than wait for Tilghman, he decided to take the first step. He called the senator’s office. The woman who answered identified herself as Sally. She obviously didn’t know him. Neither his name nor his face. “How may I help you, Mr. Culpepper?” she asked.
“I’m a friend of the senator’s,” he said. “Is he available?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “He’s not here at the moment.”
“Would you tell him I called?”
“Yes. May I ask what this is about?”
“I suspect he’ll know, Sally.”
“Very good, Mr. Culpepper. Thank you for calling.” And the screen went blank.
Jerry looked at the time. It was slightly after ten. Ordinarily, at that hour, he’d have been getting ready for his appearance on the NASA Channel. Going over the topics, constructing some spontaneous remarks, coming up with optimistic assessments on current projects.
It was painful. The organization he’d served so well had forced him to leave when he was coming to its defense. Because he wouldn’t allow it to get further sucked into this web of lies and doctored photos and whatever else.
—
He called Ralph D’Angelo.
“I was about to call you,” Ralph said. “What happened?”
“I was asking too many questions.”
Ralph was in his office. He pushed back in his chair and rubbed his hands across his few remaining strands of gray hair. “Are you telling me there’s actually something to that Moon story?”
“Yeah. Something happened.”
“What, precisely?”
“I don’t know, Ralph. But the photos of the Moon, the back side near the Cassegrain Crater, were doctored. All the pictures between 1959, which were the first ones, until after the Walker mission, were not what they were supposed to be.” He explained in detail. “I can send them to you, if you like.”
“So whatever was going on, the Russians were in on it, too?”
“Apparently.”
“Jerry, that’s crazy. That was the height of the Cold War. They wouldn’t have cooperated with us on anything.”
“I know. It makes no sense.”
“You have any kind of theory at all?”
“I got nothing, Ralph. I can’t imagine what the hell was going on.”
“We could publish the pictures, and all that would happen is that NASA would say there must have been a mistake, it’s a long time ago, who cares?”
“I know.”
“All right. I appreciate your getting to me on this. But we’re going to need something a little more substantial, Jerry. You know what I mean?”
—
Jim Tilghman didn’t return the call. Jerry knew he should take the hint, but Tilghman had told him any number of times how much he would enjoy having him around to work on his campaign. You’re just the kind of guy we need. And, of course, there was always the possibility that his message had gotten lost in the stack, that Tilghman had never seen it.
&n
bsp; He waited until Monday before calling again. He got someone else this time. Wanda. “This is Jerry Culpepper,” he said. “I’m a friend of the senator’s. Is he available?”
“I’m afraid not at the moment, Mr. Culpepper. May I have your number, please?”
Jerry sat through most of the morning, thinking maybe he should break down and take the NFL job. Then, shortly before lunch, the call came in. “Mr. Culpepper?” Wanda again. “Please hold for the senator.”
Jim Tilghman had grown up in the Appalachians. He looked like a mountain man. He’d been an offensive guard at the University of Pennsylvania, spent two seasons with the Eagles before concluding that his Maker hadn’t really intended him for pro football. (Jim was an intensely religious man, a quality that didn’t hurt him with the voters.) He’d gone to law school, become a prosecutor in Harrisburg, and later a judge. “I want to apologize for not getting right back to you, Jerry. We’ve been buried around here and, to be honest, it just got away from me.” His black hair was neatly combed, but his goatee was missing. He was somewhat ahead of schedule. Goatees, Jerry knew, were never beneficial during election years. “What can I do for you?”
“Jim, I guess you’ve heard I left NASA.”
“Yes, Jerry. That’s a pity. You were the perfect guy to have out front.” He hesitated, as if he was about to say something more. But he simply repeated himself: “It’s a pity.”
“Well, it was getting uncomfortable for me.”
“The Myshko thing.”
“Yes.”
“I can see how that could have happened. It was all a long time ago, Jerry, whatever it’s about. Something like that makes everyone uncomfortable. Do you know anything that hasn’t been made public?”
“Not really.”
Another pause. Then: “So what can I do for you, Jerry?”
That should have told him. In the past, Tilghman had always been forthright about his interest in securing him for his staff. “I’m thinking about getting back into politics, Jim.”
“Really? You planning on running for office?”
“No. I don’t think I have the qualities to win an election for myself.”
“I understand.”
“Actually, I’d like to sign on to your campaign. If you think you could use me.”
“Jerry, to tell you the truth, I don’t really have a staff position open.”
“Oh.”
The senator’s face reflected regret. “Wish I could.”
“It’s okay. I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Jerry.” Tilghman looked around, apparently checking to see whether anyone could overhear him. “I’d love to have you. But right now’s not a good time.”
“Why do you say that?”
Tilghman put his elbows on the desk and rolled his shoulders forward in what looked like a blocking position. “Jerry, you’re connected with the stories about the Myshko flight. And with Blackstone. That puts you right in the middle of the Moon conspiracy.”
“I never said there was a conspiracy.”
“It’s hard not to read it that way. And being on the same side as Blackstone doesn’t help. Jerry, you’re radioactive right now. I’d take you in a minute if that weren’t the situation. But, listen, a lot of people owe me favors. I can get you something somewhere, if you like. The Scoville people are looking for someone like you.”
“Scoville? What do they do?”
“Firearms distribution. I think I can set you up—”
—
Most of the offers were coming from public-relations firms. McCrane and Whitney. Dobbs, Bannister, and Huffman. The big ones. He’d make far more money with them than he’d ever get in a government job. But the prospect of writing commercials did nothing whatever for him.
He and Susan went back to the Olive Garden for dinner. And drank the wine. “The library could use you,” she said with a smile. “Of course, we couldn’t pay you the big bucks like NASA.”
Thank God for Susan, he thought. That night he needed her. She felt like the only safe harbor in a world turned suddenly hostile. “I’d never given it much thought until recently,” he said, “but most of the jobs out there, the stuff I’m qualified for, I don’t really want to spend my life doing.”
The dark eyes were fastened on him. “But you’ve always done public relations, Jerry. I thought you enjoyed it.”
“That was before NASA. The job really meant something there. I don’t know. I bought into the mission. Like, I guess, everybody else. Except maybe Mary and the rest of the people on the sixth floor. And to tell you the truth, I’m selling them short. It’s the system, not the people. But I don’t think I could make a living hustling toothpaste.”
The pizza arrived. But Susan never looked away from him. When the waitress was gone, she finished her wine. “You know, Jerry, most of us don’t get to move the world. Just maybe a very small part of it.”
“You suggest I take a job with McCrane and Whitney?”
“Not necessarily. But you might want to lower your sights a little.”
—
In the morning he had a call from Leslie Shields, who identified herself as one of the producers at the Target Channel. “Mr. Culpepper, I can’t flat out offer you a position with us. But we’re preparing a series that we’ll be calling Serendipity. We’ve put together some films depicting how we got lucky, how historical events very easily could have gone the other way. For example, I’m sure you know that George Washington, when he was an officer in the colonial militia, applied for a commission in the British army. The Brits didn’t believe that colonials were especially competent, so they rejected him. Imagine a Revolution in which he’s on the other side.”
“Sounds interesting,” said Jerry, wondering why they were calling him.
“Then there’s the Kansas-Nebraska Act.”
Jerry was a little foggy on that. “What about it?”
“At the time it was passed, in 1854, Lincoln had served one term as a member of the House. But he lost interest in politics and returned to Springfield and a successful law practice. He would probably have stayed there had it not been for the Kansas-Nebraska Act, which would have extended slavery beyond its original borders. So the idea is that we’d prep a film and bring in a historian. You and he would introduce it, and afterward, you’d do a discussion about the possible consequences. Had Lincoln not been in the White House, had there been someone more willing to compromise—say, Stephen Douglas—might the Civil War not have happened? And if so, where would we be today? And so forth.”
“Sounds interesting,” said Jerry.
“We feel it’s a great concept. It’s not the sort of issue that comes up in everyday conversation. Anyway, we’d like to have you come in and audition to host the show.”
“Why me? Wouldn’t you do better to get a historian?”
“No. We’ll have a historian each week. We need someone to ask the questions that an ordinary person would ask.”
“I see.”
“I guess I didn’t phrase that very well. Mr. Culpepper, we need someone who can put himself into the mind of the viewer and move the conversation in appropriate directions.”
Shields was blond, blue-eyed, about forty. She wielded the easy confidence of someone accustomed to success. To having people take her seriously. She flashed a convivial smile that promised good times ahead. The Target Channel logo, a bull’s-eye pierced by an arrow, occupied the wall space behind her. “You’d enjoy the challenge,” she said. “And the Target Channel is a good place to work. We have creative people and good management. You’d be at home.”
“I don’t think I’d be the right guy for the job,” he said.
“We also have a show about the Revolution.” She showed no inclination to let up. “If things had gone a little differently in the royal family, they’d have had a smarter foreign policy. The Americans would have been happy, and Lexington would never have happened.”
Jerry thought about it. “No Revolution?”
“There’d have been no United States. We’d be like Canada.”
NASA popped back up in Jerry’s mind. “That might have been a distinct improvement,” he said.
14
Jerry collapsed into a chair, switched on the TV, and sat back to watch the closing segment of Koestler Country. He didn’t particularly like the host, but he enjoyed watching him hassle politicians. They were on commercial, so he changed over to ESPN, and dialed in the Cincinnati Reds. They were in the third inning and already had a four-run lead over the Giants. First good news of the day.
But he watched Big Charlie Tinker walk two in a row, sighed, and went back to Koestler. The host was sitting in his book-lined studio with Brandon Janiwicz, one of the policy experts they were always trotting out. Koestler wore a skeptical frown, while Tinker was demonstrating his trademark smirk. “—Which is very strange,” Janiwicz was saying. He was pressing his fingertips together while gazing out of the screen with unrelenting skepticism. “It’s just an odd coincidence, that’s all I’m saying, that, at this particular moment, they had to pull him out of that assisted-living facility and run him over to Lackland. Where they’ve sealed him so nobody can talk to him.” “So what does that tell you, Brandon?” “Well, I’m not a conspiracy guy, Al. You know that. But obviously Bartlett’s hiding something. I don’t know what it is. But something’s not right.” —Jerry killed the sound. Froze the picture, Koestler leaning forward with that shopworn smile that suggested he’d uncovered another piece of corruption, and Janiwicz amused that anyone could have expected to fool him.
Outside somewhere, somebody was trying, without success, to start a car.
Bartlett, of course, was the sole survivor of the two lunar missions that might, or might not, have touched down on the Moon. Jerry googled him.
—
“Look, Maria,” said Jack Marquetti, host of The Morning Show, “the guy’s almost a hundred years old. And what have we got? The media going after him and claiming he’s hiding from them in a hospital. I’d like to see how well Al Koestler will be doing at that age. What we’re seeing here, and it embarrasses me to admit it, is the media trying to make a story where there is none. We have a deranged billionaire buying time to make silly claims, and sure, people get excited, and next thing we know everybody’s talking about a conspiracy. Neil Armstrong wasn’t first on the Moon. We’ve had it wrong all these years. It was really Harry Myshko.” “Sidney, Jack.” “Beg pardon?”
The Cassandra Project Page 16