“Well I’m sure. This is all about your little photograph.”
“We took a lot of photos out there. Which particular one took your fancy?”
Stamford laughs and points his finger like a gun. “Keeping it under your hat. That’s smart. Though it might have been smarter to tell Donald Menzel to go to hell when you had the chance.”
“What do you…”
“When he paid you a visit right after splashdown.”
Borman tries hard to remain expressionless. “What now?”
“Yes, we know all about that little ruse. If Menzel told you we wouldn’t find out, he was being disingenuous.”
“And who exactly is ‘we’?”
“Look Frank, I’m sorry Menzel made you the meat in the sandwich, I truly am. But you’re in now. There’s no going back.”
“You make it sound like the Mafia.”
“Christ man, we make the Mafia look like a bunch of juvenile delinquents.”
Borman sighs. He hates hearing the Lord’s name used in vain, but says nothing because Stamford would only laugh in his face. That might force him to do something he’ll later regret. Finally, he says, “Someone from NASA should be at this meeting.”
“You’re that someone.”
“NASA doesn’t know that.”
Stamford’s tone hardens. “And you’re not going to tell them. In case I haven’t made it clear, Donald Menzel is sailing way too close to the wind with his precious Verus Foundation. You’d do well to maintain a safe distance. Better still, pick another dance partner. For the purposes of self-preservation. Why do you think they sent me, partner?”
“Look, I’m here for one reason,” says Borman. “We’re about to send more men up there. I need to know it’s safe.”
“You’ve stirred the hornet’s nest.”
Borman thinks he knows where this is headed. “When I came back from the Moon, Susan — my wife — she let me in on a secret. Said she thought she’d never see me again. She was convinced I’d die out there.”
A short distance away, workmen are erecting a podium. Like roadies getting ready for an outdoor concert, except in this case nobody’s invited to the show.
Trick says, “But she still watched you leave.”
“Sometimes I worry all these years with me are driving her crazy.”
“I’d heard…”
Borman cuts him off with a glare. “What have you heard?”
Stamford holds his hands up defensively. “I’d heard it’s tough being married to a spaceman.”
Borman backs it off. “You married?”
“Me? Noo.”
“Susan’s not crazy. Not really,” Borman says. “She didn’t try to talk me out of it because she knew I wouldn’t listen. I was like a dog with a bone. We said we’d land men on the Moon, and by God that’s what we’re gonna do. Nobody on Earth can stop us — not you or your daddy, and definitely not Donald Menzel.”
5
March 2
At Douglas Airport in Charlotte NC, the Eastern Airlines hangars are far enough removed from the passenger terminal to be the perfect place for a large meeting of people who all value their anonymity.
Donald Menzel brings the black Continental to a stop to speak to the security guard at the gate on the airport perimeter. He doesn’t bother with credentials as he slowly winds down his tinted window. The guard approaches the car with a deferential expression on his face. He clearly recognizes the scientist on sight as a member of the party.
“Morning sir.”
Menzel says, “I have Colonel Borman with me. We’re here for the Eastern meeting.”
The guard nods and points toward a hangar. “It’s that one. Park anywhere you like. Refreshments are inside.”
A boom gate rises and Menzel hits the gas pedal.
“It just doesn’t seem right, meeting here like this,” says Borman.
“You’re an Eastern Airlines consultant.”
“That’s just it. Consultant, Donald. I don’t run the business. But we’re taking over an entire hangar.”
“Limited surveillance options. And perfect cover for you if you’re spotted by accident.”
“I sure hope Eastern isn’t too put out. I’d like to think this job of mine has a future.”
“Relax, Frank. They’ve been paid handsomely for their hangar. Nobody’s complaining.”
Menzel parks near a small hangar door. “Look, say as little as possible in here, OK? If someone asks a question, you reply with the briefest answer you can muster without sounding rude. Do not volunteer anything, you hear me?”
“You really don’t trust these folks, do you?”
Menzel sighs, like explaining will take forever. “You’ve got to understand this meeting is not about you. Not really. If I’ve given you the idea you’re central to this discussion, let me disavow you of that notion right now. We’ll be talking about you. But this is not about you. Unless someone addresses you directly, keep your mouth shut. Trust me on this. I have your back.”
Borman raises an eyebrow. “Yes, sir.”
“You’re one of us now.”
“I keep hearing that. It doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“You need to understand the trust of the men in this room is hard-won. It’s never given freely. You’re a national hero and you’re famous. But in here, all of that means nothing — if anything, it just makes these people nervous.”
Just inside the hangar door, coffee, donuts, sandwiches, and seven kinds of booze in crystal decanters are laid out in silver service. Nobody has touched any of it. Realizing he hasn’t eaten since dawn, Borman takes a look at the offerings. Menzel subtly nods his assent before walking away, leaving Borman feeling like he just failed the first test.
He chances a quick glance at the large conference table in the middle of the hangar, where most of those assembled are already seated. The space is poorly lit, which has to be on purpose. Despite the gloom, several people are wearing dark glasses. It’s mostly men, but there are one or two female faces. There are no place names, but there seems to be a pecking order. A seat at the table is all anyone wants, which is probably why no-one else is bothering with the food. He pours himself a coffee, making sure to keep an eye on where Menzel sits down, so he can take his place beside him without having to work his way around the table. He figures these people wouldn’t welcome that level of scrutiny.
Borman takes his cup and slowly moves toward the vacant seat beside Menzel. Nobody speaks to him. He recognizes Trick Stamford, who gives him a wink and then looks away to the older man on his right. Must be his father, Garrick.
They’re known as Bermuda — a seemingly innocuous name that could refer to summer holidays or business tax havens, but, according to Menzel, actually dates back to the group’s origins in the 1950s, the early days of the Cold War. The British-controlled island’s proximity to the US once made it the preferred destination for summits between American presidents and British prime ministers. Bermuda’s international power collective grew from the connections formed by men behind the scenes at these summits — the power behind the two thrones. But while their leaders come and go, Bermuda remains, all-knowing, all-seeing, wielding more influence than anyone in the regular corridors of power would dare imagine in the pursuit of freedom and free enterprise.
As years passed, its membership gradually became more heavily American, though their connections remain global. Many of Bermuda’s members have CIA ties, though Menzel says nobody at the CIA or the NSA has a high enough security clearance to be in this room. Both organizations regularly take orders from members of Bermuda, but the group itself is beyond scrutiny in that it doesn’t officially exist. It is the beating heart of the infamous military industrial complex that President Dwight Eisenhower warned about when he left office in 1961. Compartmentalized deep inside the nation’s security apparatus, members of Bermuda are, in effect, invisible to everyone outside their ranks. All arms of government are oblivious to their activities. Precisely the reason Truman and Eisenhower backed Verus as a way to keep an eye on them.