by Marty Steere
A brief smile flitted across Strickland’s face. Then he became serious. “As I mentioned a moment ago, the man died in the senate office building. There was a lot of confusion at the scene, and I have a number of conflicting reports about the cause and nature of the death. At least three witnesses saw someone approach the man and wrap his arms around him while he was still standing. This person was apparently the one who called for medical assistance.”
Nate held his tongue, waiting for the man to continue.
“What I find particularly fascinating,” Strickland said, “is that two of the witnesses swore this person looked identical to another man who was talking to Krantz just before he died. Does that seem odd to you?”
Nate shrugged. “It’s very common for people to become confused in stressful situations.”
“Yes,” Strickland said. “But here’s the thing: I’ve been told that you have a pair of identical twin brothers. Though,” he added, raising a hand palm up and adopting a mildly perplexed expression, “I find no record of that. As near as I can tell, you only have one brother.” He looked keenly at Nate.
Keeping his face as impassive as possible, Nate returned the look. There was a long silence.
Finally, Strickland nodded. “Well, the whole thing is apparently somewhat moot, as the body seems to have been misplaced.”
That came as a surprise to Nate.
“Shortly after the man was pronounced dead,” Strickland continued, consulting another piece of paper in the stack before him, “by a doctor whose legitimacy I have confirmed, emergency medical technicians arrived at the scene. It was an impressively quick response. Unfortunately, they never made it to the emergency room at the George Washington Medical Center. A few minutes later, another ambulance arrived. From the medical center.”
He set down the piece of paper and considered Nate. “That’s very strange, don’t you think?”
Nate wasn’t sure what to think. All of this was news to him.
Strickland turned to the man on his right. “Do you have any idea how that might have happened?”
The man didn’t reply immediately. After a few seconds, he said, quietly, “No.” Then he looked at Nate. Strickland also turned to Nate.
“Do you know anything about this?” the Attorney General asked.
“No,” Nate said immediately.
Strickland nodded slowly. “What makes it even more interesting is that the security tapes from the rotunda for that morning seem to have disappeared. The Capitol Police are at a loss to explain how that happened. As is,” he said, turning again to the man across the table from Nate, “your organization. Correct?”
“That is correct,” the man said, again looking at Nate. The man’s expression did not change, but Nate could swear there was a new look in his eyes. For lack of a better term, it seemed almost respectful.
Nate gave the Attorney General a direct look. “Sir, I assure you I do not have an explanation for these things.”
Strickland glanced down for a moment. Then he returned Nate’s look. “No reason why you should. I understand you’ve been a victim here. We have much to unravel, due in large measure to the actions of this man Krantz over the last several years. In light of that, I’m not inclined to make what happened to him my top priority.”
He tipped his head in the direction of the people sitting across the table from Nate. “I’ve received assurances from these gentlemen that you, and the others with you, are in no further peril. I’d like to extend an apology on behalf of the federal government for the difficulties you’ve experienced, and I give you my word that I will make certain we redress the wrongs that were visited on you.”
He gave Nate a look that seemed genuine. “I can’t set everything right. Some things,” he paused, then continued, “can’t be undone. But I’ll do my best.”
The Attorney General’s words stirred a renewed melancholy. After a moment, Nate nodded. “Thank you,” he said simply.
Strickland looked around the room. “I’d like to thank all of you for coming…”
“One moment, please,” Nate interjected. With a curious expression Strickland looked at him. “I’d like to ask a question,” Nate said.
The Attorney General hesitated, then nodded.
Nate looked across the table. “I’d like to know what happened to the Apollo 18 capsule. I have reason to believe that Steve Dayton made it back to Earth safely.”
The two men on the other side glanced at one another. Then, the one who was to Strickland’s immediate right said, “We don’t know anything about that.”
The man gave Nate a direct look. “Sorry,” he added.
Nate, however, was not looking at the two men. Instead, his focus was on the woman sitting between them. When he’d started to ask his question, she’d nodded slightly, and Nate had taken heart. But then a look of mild surprise had come over her, and Nate’s spirits sank. Still, he pressed forward. “I’d like to ask if Ms. Branson knows anything about it.”
Everyone in the room turned to consider the elderly woman. Obviously uncomfortable, she looked at the man on her left. After a moment, he nodded slightly. She licked her lips and returned her attention to Nate. Hesitantly, she said, “I do.”
Nate’s pulse quickened.
The woman’s eyes shifted between Nate and the Attorney General. In a quiet voice, she said, “They told me I couldn’t reveal any secrets. National security. I’m not supposed to question anything. I’ve seen what happens to people…” Her voice trailed off. Then she took a quick breath. “Every year, I have to sign a renewal of my confidentiality covenant.” A pained look crossed her face. “I’ve wanted to…”
She became quiet, her gaze still darting between Strickland and Nate.
Strickland looked hard at the man to his right, who again nodded. The man turned to the woman and said, “This is something you can talk about.”
The woman took a deep breath. “Oh,” she said haltingly, “ok.” She glanced at the table, then back up at Nate. “I do know what happened to Major Dayton. And,” she paused, her face clouded, “your father.”
Nate nodded, and said softly, “Yes, I know what happened to my father.”
The woman’s brow knit. “If you know that, then, why?”
A residual anger welled in Nate. Working to keep his voice calm, he said, “I promised Major Dayton’s daughter I would follow up on her father’s fate. It takes nothing away from what happened to my father. He was a great man. I see no reason to trample on his grave.”
The woman nodded slowly. “I meant no disrespect,” she said, and it sounded sincere to Nate. “And, believe me, I wouldn’t do it if I could. But, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t possibly trample on your father’s grave. I couldn’t do it for a very simple reason.”
She looked at him with a new intensity.
“Your father’s not dead.”
#
When Bob Cartwright opened his eyes, he was greeted by a splash of early morning light on the concrete wall beside his cot. Just a narrow horizontal line, it would soon thin to nothing as the sun’s arc carried it up and out of view from the slit in the east wall of the bunker. In a few minutes, the enclosure would return to semi-darkness, until late in the day, when sunlight would once again peek through the corresponding opening in the west-facing wall. He glanced over at the other two cots. Empty.
Then he remembered what day it was. He threw back the thin blanket and slid his legs over the side of the bunk. On the bare floor were his flip-flops, actually a pair of old boots from which he’d cut away everything above the soles except for a narrow strip of leather still attached to either side and permanently laced together on top. He slid his feet in, stood and shuffled to the doorway, where he had to duck in order to pass through. Once outside, he straightened and looked up.
It was a cloudless day, with no wind. Perfect. Over the past several days they’d been inundated with rain. October was drawing to a close, and the next six months would bring more of the same.
But for Drop Day, they couldn’t have asked for better weather.
Instinctively, he looked around. From the spot here on the top of the Rock, there was nothing but the brilliant blue of the water, stretching out in every direction as far as he could see, merging at the distant horizon with the cerulean sky.
With not even a mild breeze to contend with, he could use the more convenient west side to urinate. He took the few steps to the familiar spot, pushed aside a leg of his shorts, and sent a stream of piss down the shear face of the rock wall to the ocean eighty feet below. When he was finished, he turned and followed the well-worn path leading down to the Parade Ground.
Dayton, he saw, had taken a seat on the Bench, which was really just a worn cleft of rock near the bottom of the path providing a view to the east out across a small flat area. As usual, Dayton had the triangular piece of cloth he wore on sunny days draped over his head and tied in the back to protect his bald pate from burning. He, like Cartwright, was dressed only in shorts, consisting of a pair of coveralls cut off at the waist and mid-thigh and held up with a belt fashioned from parachute lines. Except for those rare winter days when the temperature dropped below seventy degrees, it was the only garment each of the men ever wore.
Dayton obviously heard Cartwright’s footsteps. He turned briefly, then slid to one side, offering space on the Bench. Cartwright took a seat.
“When do you think?” Cartwright asked.
Dayton squinted at the sun, now a few degrees above the horizon. “Soon.”
Of course, “soon” could mean five minutes or it could mean fifty minutes. Time, as the men had come to learn, had little meaning here on the Rock. With the exception of Drop Day, there was really nothing to mark. Still, Dayton religiously kept the log, so they knew the day, the month and the year. Were it not for Drop Day, though, they’d probably have long since let it go.
Cartwright looked around. “Sasha?”
Dayton tipped his head. “Doing his morning constitutional.”
Cartwright nodded, and the two men sat in companionable silence. After a couple of minutes, Kruchinkin’s head appeared at the far end of the Parade Ground, gray tousled hair hanging to his shoulders. He came walking up the steps they’d carved into the far side of the island, a roll of toilet paper in one hand. He also wore shorts and was shirtless. Around his neck, a silver chain extended down to a spot in the middle of the chest where it disappeared into scar tissue that had grown over the bullet wound from all those years before. From a distance, it almost looked like the scar dangled from the chain like a pendant.
When the Russian got closer, he smiled his familiar toothy grin. “Drop Day,” he said, unnecessarily. Cartwright and Dayton both nodded. Dayton slid further to his right, and Cartwright did the same. Kruchinkin took a seat. All three men turned their attention to the eastern horizon.
Dayton heard it first, of course. Both Cartwright and Kruchinkin still suffered residual hearing loss from the gunshots in the small enclosure of the Soviet space station. When the man stiffened, Cartwright glanced over. “Coming?”
Dayton nodded.
All three men reflexively leaned forward.
After a minute, Cartwright heard it too. Faint, but growing louder. Then the thing materialized on the horizon. Just a speck at first, but it, like the sound, grew quickly, until, in a moment, Cartwright could make out the shape of her wings extending out from the rounded front of her fuselage.
The throaty growl of the C-130’s four turboprop engines became more distinct. Cartwright felt the familiar excitement. The ground began to vibrate. At the last moment, the air seemed to shimmer. And then the massive thing was roaring over them, no more than three hundred feet off the surface of the water, an even shorter distance from the spot where the men sat.
From the open rear, a dark object appeared, trailing white cloth which quickly morphed into a small canopy as it filled with air. The object dangled beneath it momentarily, suspended above the Rock for no more than five seconds before gently settling onto the small flat area the men had dubbed the Parade Ground. A perfect drop.
The sound of the large aircraft faded quickly as it receded to the west, until, in a moment, the quiet returned, and the plane was just a memory.
Cartwright had to give some grudging credit to the men who, every twelve weeks like clockwork, performed the duty they’d just witnessed. In thirty-five years, they’d only missed the Rock twice, once overshooting and, on the other occasion, missing wide in a stiff cross wind.
He looked at the other two. “Shall we?”
Kruchinkin nodded. “Let’s do it,” said Dayton.
They rose and walked the short distance to the spot where the bundle had landed. There was no hurry. They had nothing but time. And this was more about anticipation than anything else. The likelihood that they’d find other than the normal fare was extraordinarily remote.
As usual, the bundle was bound in a mesh netting. Cartwright pulled from his pocket the blade he’d fashioned by honing the edge of a dinner knife to a sharp point, and he cut the top of the bundle, releasing its contents. There were several five gallon bags of water which they removed and set aside. They carefully sifted through the rest and found that it was, as usual, almost exclusively food, boxed in the flimsy cardboard containers that, when emptied, were mostly useless for anything other than lighting fires. There were several rolls of toilet paper this time, and a canvas bag containing a few bars of soap and some disposable razors. Unconsciously Cartwright put his hand up to his face and rubbed his jaw. He hadn’t shaved in a week, not that it mattered.
They’d had no reasonable expectation there would be more. Still, it was a let down. None of them said anything, though. No point. Instead, they went about the task of organizing the supplies.
It was in the early 1980’s they’d first hit pay dirt. After opening the re-supply bundle, they’d found a sports page from a Honolulu newspaper wedged between two of the water bags. Two years later, an advertising brochure from an electronics store had somehow made its way into the bundle. The real gem, however, had come in late 1999. A tattered copy of Newsweek, the decade in review, covering the 1990’s. The men had devoured it, practically memorizing every word. Unfortunately, over the past dozen years, there had been nothing more.
The world, they knew, still apparently functioned, because their supplies kept coming. Beyond that, however, they had no clue what was happening.
Perhaps it was because it was Drop Day, and they’d just been shut out once again, but, as he trudged up the path carrying two of the water bags, Cartwright found himself sliding into what had become, of late, a familiar funk, wracked by the insidious questions that had recently bedeviled him. Chief among them was whether, had he known they’d still be here thirty-six years later, would he have just packed it in from the get go? Spared himself the long, quiet agony? Despite himself, he thought he might.
And, if so, why keep going now?
Of course, the fact that he and Kruchinkin had even made it back to Earth was a miracle. By all rights, they should have died a long time ago, drifting in the void of space.
But Dayton, God bless him, had set his thrusters perfectly. Instead of a course out of the way of the approaching lunar module, he’d plugged in a sequence that would draw the command vessel straight up from the moon’s surface, and he did it in such perfect synch with the module that, after several thousand feet, he was able to bring the smaller ship into a flawless rendezvous. Cartwright doubted that there were many, if any, other pilots alive who would have been able to pull off such a maneuver.
What, though, had Dayton’s heroics bought them?
After a silent transit back from the moon, they’d managed to re-establish contact with Mission Control. Just before separation of the capsule from the service module in preparation for re-entry, the same man who’d been handling Capcom duties from Alamogordo had given them instructions for a supplemental burn to adjust their re-entry point, explaining that the original landing site
was subject to high winds and dangerous swells. The three of them had debated whether or not to follow the instructions. Cartwright had demanded that he speak with Rick Delahousse, but was told in no uncertain terms that Delahousse could not be put on because he’d experienced a family emergency. Stu Overholdt was likewise unavailable. All of Cartwright’s instincts told him he couldn’t trust the instructions he was receiving. But, when all was said and done, his training and his military discipline overrode his gut feelings. It was, he feared to this day, a tragic mistake on his part.
He knew there was something amiss just after splashdown. They hadn’t even had the chance to reach for the hatch when it popped on its own, obviously accessed from outside. From the narrow opening, two objects had been hurled into the capsule. The last thing he remembered before blackness overtook him was the mist of fog that suddenly filled the small enclosure.
He’d awakened to discover that his world had suddenly shrunk to a couple acres of land, perched high on a craggy piece of rock jutting up out of the ocean, nothing around but water as far as the eye could see. By taking celestial bearings, he’d been able to fix their location as somewhere in the Pacific, likely well to the northwest of Hawaii. Many years before, Cartwright had stopped for refueling at the Naval Air Station on Midway Island. At the time, he’d considered that place a lonely and forlorn outpost. Ironically, it now most likely represented the nearest civilization.
Their home, which they’d dubbed the Rock, had been, as far as they could tell, a military installation at one time, probably dating back to the second world war. Whether it was built by the Americans or the Japanese, however, was anyone’s guess. Whoever had claimed the pitiful piece of land had blasted the tip off and constructed a small bunker with wide slits on each of the four sides at about eye level. They provided fine views of the absolute nothingness that surrounded them. At one time, perhaps, this particular patch of earth might have been considered strategic, but that had long ago ceased to be the case.
For years, the three men had diligently monitored the ocean in all directions, hoping to spot a passing ship they could signal, but they’d long since given up any hope that would happen. Occasionally, aircraft would fly over, but much too high to be signaled. Other than the C-130 that dropped their supplies every three months, they’d had absolutely no contact with the outside world.