by Marty Steere
“No,” Dayton said, “but I can still hear them. Near as I can tell, they’re circling.”
Kruchinkin looked at Cartwright. “Maybe this is a good thing, yes?”
Cartwright was overwhelmed with an irrational fear that he’d get his hopes up only to have them dashed horribly. Still, he couldn’t completely tamp down the excitement. He shrugged. “Maybe.”
Kruchinkin’s eyes shone. “Yes, I am certain it is.”
Dayton spun around suddenly. There was a new tension in his body language.
“What is it?” Cartwright asked.
“I think,” Dayton said slowly, “it might be…” He was silent for a long moment. Suddenly he turned and looked intently at Cartwright and Kruchinkin.
“A helicopter.”
Cartwright’s heart missed at least two beats, but it didn’t matter, as adrenaline surged through him. “I’m coming out.”
He stepped out of the bunker, Kruchinkin behind him. He looked around, but saw nothing but the sea and sky. He strained to hear something, anything. But the only thing registering was the muffled beat of his own heart as it pounded blood to his head.
Dayton had taken a few steps down the path leading to the Parade Ground. He was looking east, in the same direction from which the re-supply plane had come. Cartwright focused his attention in that direction. And then he heard it. Faint. Distant. But unmistakable.
“I’ll be damned.”
Dayton looked back at him with a questioning expression.
Cartwright shrugged. “We’re either rescued or we’re dead. Either way,” he waved a hand in the direction of the Parade Ground, “we might as well.”
Quickly, the three hurried down the path. At the bottom, they stopped and stood, side by side, squinting to the east, Cartwright’s heart doing a fair impression of a jack hammer.
“There,” Kruchinkin exclaimed, pointing.
Low on the distant horizon was a small black spot. Cartwright could now clearly hear the rhythmic slapping sound of helicopter rotors. The spot grew, not as quickly as the re-supply plane had, but still steadily until Cartwright could make out a blunt nose with a long horizontal line above it, extending far out to either side. He dared not move or blink for fear of it suddenly vanishing.
As the aircraft approached the island, the sound became overwhelming. And then the massive thing loomed above them, the downward draft of its rotors washing off the bare surface of the Parade Ground and over and around the three men. From beneath the fuselage, small landing gear appeared, and the pilot slowly eased the large ungainly-looking craft down, settling onto the ground with a slight bounce, her nose pointed at the men huddled together a few feet away. There was an abrupt change in noise as the roar of the engines faded away, leaving a residual high pitched sound that, in turn, began to fade slowly.
On the right hand side of the fuselage, just behind the cockpit, the lower half of a door swung downward, forming a set of steps. A trim man in a blue windbreaker stepped out and began walking toward them. Something about the man seemed familiar to Cartwright. And then it hit him.
Oh my god, he thought. Damned if the son of a gun hadn’t gone and gotten old. Cartwright took a couple of awkward steps in the man’s direction. A huge smile split the man’s face and he opened his arms. Cartwright reached out and, when he was near, pulled Rick Delahousse to him, wrapping his arms around the man. Emotion overwhelmed Cartwright, his knees buckled slightly, and he had to hold on to his old friend to avoid falling. He wanted to speak, but his throat was suddenly constricted, and he realized with some embarrassment that there were tears running down his face.
Delahousse planted his feet and clung to Cartwright. They stayed that way for a long time.
Finally, still leaning against Delahousse, Cartwright reached up with his left hand and wiped his eyes. Then he relaxed his grip, took a deep breath and stepped back. Delahousse, he saw, had tears on his own face.
“Rick,” he managed to croak, “what…” He didn’t even know how to ask.
Delahousse shook his head. He seemed at a loss for words himself.
Cartwright suddenly remembered his companions. He glanced back. Dayton had come up behind him. Delahousse took a step toward the man, and they embraced. When they let go, Dayton looked as unsteady as Cartwright felt, and he, too, seemed unsure what to say.
Kruchinkin, who had held back, now stepped forward. “I do not know who you are,” said the Russian, his voice trembling, “but I love you.” And he grabbed Delahousse and enfolded him in a huge bear hug. It caught the Texan by surprise. After a couple of seconds, his startled look gave way to a laugh. It seemed to break the spell, and suddenly all four men were laughing.
Stepping back from Kruchinkin, Delahousse used both hands to brush the tears from his face, then he gave Cartwright a direct look. “Sorry it took us so long, Bob. Honestly, we thought you were dead all these years. We only just figured it out.
“We wouldn’t have,” he added, “if not for your sons.”
The weakness returned to Cartwright’s legs. “My sons,” he said faintly.
Behind Delahousse, another man had emerged from the helicopter. Cartwright looked at him and experienced a moment of lightheaded disorientation. It was as if, for the first time in thirty-six years, he was looking in a mirror, his own dark countenance peering intently back at him at eye level, a look of concern mingled with excitement.
Cartwright’s breath came rattling out of him along with a single word. “Nate.”
“Dad,” his son said quietly. And then they were in each others’ arms, and again Cartwright’s throat wouldn’t allow him to say anything for a long moment. Still clinging to Nate, he was finally able to get out, “Peter and Matt?”
“We’re here, Dad.”
Cartwright glanced up and saw Peter, brows furrowed. From behind him, Matt emerged. He had a smile on his face. My god, Cartwright thought, his boys had become men.
He reached out his left arm, and the twins stepped into the embrace. For how long Cartwright couldn’t say - but a wonderfully long time - the four of them remained there, no one saying anything. Finally Cartwright straightened and looked at each of his sons in turn. “How did you…” He was again at a loss for words.
“It was Peter,” Nate said quickly. “He started looking into Apollo 18. If he hadn’t…”
“It was Matt,” Peter interrupted. “He did the hard stuff.”
“No,” Matt said firmly. “The fact is, we wouldn’t be here, we wouldn’t be together, if not for Nate.”
Peter nodded.
Cartwright looked at Nate, who shrugged. “It was kind of a joint effort. We’ll tell you all about it. But first, we’re going to take you home.”
Cartwright smiled. “Back to the world?”
Nate nodded. “Back to the world,” he agreed.
Cartwright turned excitedly to Dayton and was about to say something when he saw the anguish on his friend’s face. “Steve?”
Dayton gave him a bleak look, tears brimming. “Jean,” he said simply.
Delahousse, who had an arm draped protectively over Dayton’s shoulder, glanced at Cartwright and said softly, “She passed away a few years ago. Cancer.”
Cartwright felt an intense weight press on his chest. “Oh, god, Steve. I’m so sorry.”
From behind him, Cartwright heard Nate say, “Major Dayton?”
Cartwright looked back and saw a striking young woman with vivid red hair standing next to his oldest son. Nate had one of her hands in his and was looking intently at Dayton.
“Sir, I have someone I’d like you to meet.” Nate let go and gently put his hand on the woman’s back, urging her forward. She took a couple of tentative steps. Her eyes, Cartwright noticed, were a startling green. And, he realized, she looked like someone he knew. Or used to know, he amended ruefully.
Then he realized who it had to be.
“Maggie?” Dayton exclaimed. The young woman nodded solemnly. Dayton stepped toward her on wobbly
legs. She immediately rushed forward and threw her arms around him.
Cartwright looked at Nate, and, after a moment, his son returned the look. Cartwright tipped his head. Nate returned the gesture.
“Commander Cartwright?” another voice said. Cartwright turned to see a man dressed in camouflaged fatigues with matching cap. Above the left breast was the notation “U.S. Air Force,” and over the right, the name “McConnell.” Four stars were arrayed along both collars and across the front of the cap.
“I’m General Bryce McConnell, and it’s an honor to meet you, sir.” He reached out a hand, and Cartwright took it. “I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am for what you’ve had to go through. You’re owed a full explanation, and I’ll make sure you get it. For the moment, I’ll tell you that you were the victim of some very unscrupulous people who took advantage of the system. We owe a debt to your sons for bringing it to our attention.”
Cartwright again glanced at his boys.
“And,” the general continued, “we owe a debt to you. One that we’ll never be able to fully repay. For what it’s worth, however, I can tell you I’ve spoken with both the Navy and Air Force personnel offices. Since neither you nor Major Dayton were ever mustered out, you each have a little over thirty-six years’ worth of back pay accumulated. Supplemented by hazardous duty pay. Not to mentioned your unused housing and food allowance.”
He gave Cartwright a grim smile. “It can’t make up for everything, but I’m happy to say that each of you has a few million dollars coming.”
Cartwright was stunned. But then he thought of something. He turned and looked back at Kruchinkin. “Sasha.”
“Ah, yes,” McConnell said, quickly, “Doctor Kruchinkin.”
The Russian smiled self-consciously. “Thank you. But I am not a doctor.”
“That’s not completely true, sir,” McConnell said. “Before you left on your mission, you had completed all your class work and submitted your thesis. You never had a chance to defend it, but there were some extenuating circumstances.”
Kruchinkin shrugged. “A few things did happen.”
“Indeed,” McConnell continued. “Over the past few days there have been some awkward and delicate discussions taking place between our respective governments. Not all the details have yet been worked out, but I can tell you that your degree has been awarded by the Lomonosov Moscow State University retroactive to 1976. And an appropriate stipend has been set aside to compensate you for the services you’ve rendered in assisting our two officers.”
Kruchinkin looked between McConnell and Cartwright. Then, he smiled his toothy grin. “Yes,” he said, “this is good.”
“One other thing, Doctor,” McConnell said. “Earlier this morning, I was on the phone with our embassy in Moscow. Our military attaché had just met with your parents. They are retired and live in an apartment in Reútov. They’re looking forward to seeing you.”
Kruchinkin appeared as though he might faint. Cartwright stepped over quickly and put an arm around him. Dayton, he saw, had placed two hands gently on the sides of the young woman’s face, and he kissed her lightly on the forehead. Then he turned and walked over to them, putting his arms out, and the three old friends embraced.
#
The mid-morning sun glistened off the tops of the waves in Frenchman Bay, and the sound of gulls drifted across the small peninsula. In the distance, a sailboat turned, her pilot tacking in the soft breeze, and, as Nate idly watched, her sail filled with air, and she began a leisurely east to west transit. Nate reached up, closed the lid on his laptop and set it on the small table next to him. The day was just too glorious to spend working.
Laughter from the far end of the long veranda interrupted his reverie, and he glanced over. His dad, a smile on his face, was in the process of gathering playing cards scattered on the portable table around which the three men sat, and he began shuffling them while his two companions kept up an animated conversation that Nate couldn’t quite hear.
His father had filled out nicely over the past eight months. Gone was the sallow, gaunt look he’d had when they’d found him on that pathetic rock in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. The doctors had pronounced him to be in marvelous shape, and he looked particularly tanned and rested this morning.
Dayton and Kruchinkin had likewise recovered well from their ordeal. The staff at Tripler Army Medical Center had been frankly amazed at the health of the three men. For a couple of weeks after their rescue, they’d been housed in a series of bungalows at the facility, located on the slopes of the Moanalua Ridge overlooking Honolulu, while undergoing a battery of physical and psychological tests. The first couple of nights, the men had insisted on sleeping in the same room, which the psychiatrists said was a perfectly normal reaction. Eventually, they’d become comfortable in their own rooms, but, during the day, they’d spent much of their time together.
The men had possessed a seemingly unlimited thirst for information. They’d scrutinized every magazine, book and newspaper they could put their hands on. Everything was new and wonderful. Then Peter introduced them to the internet, and that was it. Each man had spent hours a day surfing the web. Nate had taken his dad to see a movie at the nearby cineplex, and the man had been awestruck, insisting he return the next day with Dayton and Kruchinkin.
After two weeks, the doctors had cleared the men for travel, and Kruchinkin had flown home to Moscow for a reunion with his parents. Sadly, his mother passed away three months later, but he reported that she had been overjoyed in her last weeks having her son with her. Kruchinkin’s father had eventually returned with him and was now living in the large condominium Kruchinkin had purchased in downtown Atlanta. The Russian had made the trip north for the gathering in Bar Harbor, but he would be returning soon to resume caring for his father, and, in a few weeks, he would begin his first semester teaching at Georgia Tech University.
Dayton had been delighted when his two former colleagues had arrived a week earlier. Theirs was a bond Nate could only imagine, and the three men had spent days reminiscing and - because they now could - laughing about things only they could possibly understand.
The rear door to the house opened and Maggie stepped out. She glanced over at the three men huddled around the card table, smiled and turned to Nate.
“Your brother’s here,” she said. “He’s out front talking to Tim.”
Nate was surprised. Peter and Matt weren’t due to arrive for another day.
“Which one?”
Maggie suddenly looked sheepish. Despite himself, Nate laughed.
“Don’t worry. You’ll eventually get it,” he said.
She gave him a rueful look. “I don’t know about that.”
Nate reached a hand out. “Just give it time.”
She stepped toward him, took his hand, and allowed him to pull her close. Then she leaned down and softly placed her head against his. “I’ll give it all the time in the world.”
Nate brought his other hand over and lay it against her cheek. They stayed that way for a long moment.
Finally, Nate took a deep breath and said, “I better go see what’s up.”
In the parlor, he found Matt crouched by the front door, an animated Buster licking his face.
“Didn’t expect you until tomorrow,” Nate said. “And I thought you and Peter were traveling together.”
Matt stood, held his arms out, and the two brothers embraced.
“Peter’s taking a flight in the morning from New York,” Matt said. “He had to meet with his editor.”
That was no surprise. Peter’s book detailing the true story behind Apollo 18 was due to be released shortly, and it had generated a lot of pre-publication buzz. Nate had read an advance copy and had been thoroughly impressed. In addition to things they’d learned from their father, Peter had somehow managed to uncover an extraordinary amount of previously undisclosed information, including the answer to something that had vexed Nate for months: Where did that capsule with the burned b
odies come from? According to Peter, on the day of their father’s re-entry, shortly after the real Apollo 18 had initiated a supplemental burn altering its entry point, the command module intended for use on the cancelled Apollo 19 mission, staged with three cadavers spirited away from the Houston morgue, had been dropped from a B-52 flying at high altitude a few miles north of the awaiting navy task force.
Nate wasn’t sure where Peter was getting his information, but he had a suspicion. Peter had moved from San Francisco to Northern Virginia, and he and Matt - once again, two peas in a pod - had taken up residence at the site of the old farmhouse outside Leesburg. They’d apparently knocked the thing down and constructed a new, larger structure. Nate didn’t know whether that included the secret apartment accessed through the basement. He also wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
“So what brings you up early?” Nate asked.
Matt affected a bewildered look. “What? I need an excuse to see my big brother? And spend time with him before he straps on the old ball and chain?”
Nate put on his own show of surprise. “Are you saying you have a problem with my marrying Maggie?”
Matt looked suddenly serious. “No, not at all. As a matter of fact, if you’d waited any longer, you and I were going to have a serious discussion.” He grinned. “I’m really happy for you.”
His face, again however, became sober. “But you and I need to talk.”
“That sounds ominous.”
Matt nodded toward the front door. “Let’s take a walk.”
With Buster pulling on his leash, the two brothers casually sauntered down the narrow lane connecting the Dayton home to the highway. Neither spoke for a couple of minutes.
Finally, Matt said, “I had a meeting the other day with Tony Strickland.”
Nate glanced over. Recalling his conversation months ago with the Attorney General, he said, “Last I heard, he didn’t even know you were alive.”