“I think if you wanted to make President Cunningham uncomfortable, you couldn’t have planned it better,” said Gloria. She paused and stared at him. “Did you want to upset him?”
“Not especially,” said Bucky. “One thing not a single member of the press thought about, or more likely cares about, is that if all those presidents thought it was essential to keep this thing secret, they must have had a reason.”
“Son of a gun!” exclaimed Brent in surprise.
“Five’ll get you ten that not one of them considers that before they stake out the White House.” A bittersweet smile crossed Bucky’s mouth. “We’ve been on opposite sides of this, or at least not on the same side, but Cunningham’s a decent man, and for all I know, he has an excellent reason for covering up the Myshko mission, though now that they know about it, they’ll never leave him alone until they get the full story.” He leaned back on his chair. “I feel sorry for the poor bastard.”
38
Lyra had gone to bed. The volume on the TV was set low, and Cunningham was violating Secret Service protocols, standing near the curtains, drinking a rum and Coke, looking out at the sliver of moon hanging over the capital. Not much point being president of the United States if you can’t look out the window. The Moon is one of those things everyone takes for granted. Like spaghetti and meatballs. Or most of the people in our lives. We don’t notice them until they’re not there anymore. Or they start causing trouble.
The Moon is for lovers.
Well. Maybe back in the old days. He raised his glass to it.
And, reluctantly, to Bucky.
Behind him, NBC was replaying the arrival of the Myshko. He could just hear Cal Peterson’s voice describing the scene. He seemed awestruck. A reflection of the arriving lights moved across the window.
“Here it comes,” said Peterson.
He sighed, lowered himself onto a chair arm, adjusted the volume, and watched. The night sky was filled with stars. Abruptly, the picture split in two, one showing the incoming spacecraft, the other a crowd of several hundred standing anxiously behind security lines. Not bad, Cunningham thought. It was almost eleven o’clock out there.
He was looking across an illuminated landing field, probably from a perch atop one of the hangars. The lights were growing steadily brighter, descending out of the night. Peterson kept talking about what a great moment it was for mankind, and what a debt of gratitude the nation owed Bucky Blackstone, and, by the way, tune in tomorrow for a complete recap of the mission.
It was hard not to be jealous.
It was too dark to be sure how close the Myshko was to the ground. Then, abruptly, it was visible in the field lights, its gray metal body sleek in the style of a corporate jet except for the twin rocket engines in the rear. The crowd began to applaud. The voice went quiet as the vehicle touched down, rear wheels first, then the nose, and the applause grew, turned into shouts and clapping and somewhere, out of sight, a band began to play “Fly Me to the Moon.”
Yes, indeed. One of the great moments in history. He wondered how Bucky could have overlooked managing things so they’d have landed during prime time instead of an hour before midnight, 1:00 A.M. on the East Coast. He was probably not as good at public relations as people gave him credit for. Or maybe he just didn’t give a damn. The president shook his head. He’d begun to think too much like a politician. Not a good sign, not for a guy who thought of himself as so much more.
The vehicle slowed and came to a stop. Then guys with lights fanned out onto the field, directing the pilot toward a pair of tow trucks. Peterson was going on about how a new era in space exploration had begun. The Myshko pulled in behind the trucks, lines were attached to the undercarriage, and they began pulling it toward one of the hangars. As it disappeared inside, a new voice, a woman’s voice, broke in. “Cal,” she said, “we’ll be getting a statement shortly from Mr. Blackstone.”
—
But first there were journalists interviewing each other. Magnificent day for the United States. Proud to be an American. Tell you the truth, Bill, it’s an important day for the entire world. And what do you think about those descent stages on the Moon? Where’d they come from? Then doors must have opened somewhere and suddenly the president was looking at the interior of the hangar, dominated by the Myshko. Lights were on, and the astronauts, still in their gear, were standing near the ship while security people tried to keep order. Off to one side of the spacecraft, two pieces of curved gray metal rested on tables. Both had jagged edges, as if they’d been ripped from a larger piece. They were different sizes, but the curvature and the complexion looked identical.
“What’s that stuff?” asked a reporter, pointing at them.
Blackstone came forward, carrying a microphone. “That’s what we hope to find out.”
“Did they come from Myshko’s ship?” asked another. Cunningham recognized her as the A.P.’s Jenna Hawkins.
“I’ve no idea.”
“Oh, come on, Bucky,” said a voice from the crowd. “Take a guess!”
Bucky grinned. He was having the time of his life.
—
After Blackstone left, Jerry took his place, Jerry in his trademark suede jacket and dark brown tie, smiling, holding up his hands, asking for order, inviting more questions. He was still trying to quiet everything down when Ray called.
“George,” he said. “You saw it?”
“Yes, Ray.”
“The telephones are ringing. We’re going to have to get a statement out posthaste. You want me to put something together?”
Ordinarily, the assignment to create a first draft would have fallen to the press secretary. Who was presumably home asleep. But Cunningham had neither the time nor the inclination for that. “This is kind of a special case, Ray. My God, aliens. Is that really what it was?”
“I don’t know, George.”
“I’ll take care of it. I’ll get something to you in a few minutes.”
“Okay.” He hesitated.
“What, Ray?”
“It could still be a hoax, George. We don’t know they actually found those pieces of metal up there.”
“I suppose that’s possible. But what would Blackstone have to gain by making up a wild story that would fall apart so easily? He knows he’d be found out. No, I think we can believe what he’s telling us.”
“Okay. I hope we have it right.”
“Ray, I’m not sure what I’m hoping for now. By the way, where’s Weinstein?”
“Should be pulling up out front shortly.”
“Okay. Let me get this press release taken care of, and I’ll be down.”
—
Easier said than done. His first inclination was simply to proclaim that he was on the case. That the White House had been as surprised as anyone else at Blackstone’s discovery but that he wasn’t prepared to say more than that until he’d looked into the matter.
But that would have been a bad call. Michelle Morris would be here shortly with something from President Nixon that, he assumed, would provide an explanation.
What the hell had they stumbled into? The early flights had been made at the height of the Cold War. Had this been some sort of behind-the-scenes game between the U.S. and the Soviet Union? Maybe we’d wanted to set up a site on the Moon to launch missiles? Or maybe just get the Soviets to think we were doing that? So there’d been secret missions. Did that make any sense at all? Was it even possible?
No.
It had to be aliens. But Cunningham had grown up in a family of real-world skeptics. He’d spent a lifetime laughing at people who thought there was a major conspiracy about Roswell, who claimed they’d been kidnapped by UFOs.