“Pardon me, Dr. Jackson?” The writer tried to be as polite as possible, but he was becoming anxious. “About the interview… is it possible I can speak with you and the others this afternoon before…?”
“Come with me to the living room,” Jackson said. “You’ll get your interview there.”
The back porch ran the length of the lodge’s ground floor, its tall screen windows looking out over Lake Monomonac. A long oak table nearly as big as the one they’d just left stood in the middle of the porch, wooden benches on either side. Crock-Pots and empty trays showed that it had served as a way station between the kitchen and the picnic site, but at one end there was something else: the bent and waterlogged remains of a model rocket, its plastic nose cone open to reveal a small white parachute that had been removed from the casing.
Carl was seated at the table, studying an iPad. Its screen depicted a departure-angle view of the launch, footage captured by a tiny digital camera that had been aboard the rocket and downloaded into the tablet. Again and again, the beach fell away below the rocket during its brief flight, the lake becoming visible for a few seconds before the images came to an abrupt end. As Jackson and Morse walked by, Morse paused to gaze over the boy’s shoulder.
“Well?” he asked. “Any conclusions?”
“I didn’t fit the nose cone correctly. And the engine didn’t fire long enough.” Carl shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. It’ll never fly again.”
“Then you build another one, and next time you learn from your mistakes.” Morse smiled. “That’s what Bob Goddard taught me, back when he and I…”
“Grandpa,” Ellen said from his elbow, “if you’re going to start in on your war stories, then take it into the living room. We need to clean up here.”
“Quite right.” Morse clapped a hand on his great-grandson’s shoulder. “All right, sir… let’s go see what everyone else is up to.” Smiling, he bent slightly to add in a stage whisper, “We’re going to tell the Great and Secret Story.”
This was the second time Walker had heard this particular phrase. Everyone seemed to know what it meant except him. Yet Carl was indifferent. “I’ve heard it before,” he murmured, looking down again at his broken model.
“You have?” Morse stared at him in shock, not knowing what to make of this. “When?”
“The last couple of times we’ve been out there.”
Straightening up, Morse looked at his granddaughter. Ellen sadly nodded, confirming what her son just said. Morse frowned in disgust and stamped away from the table, heading for a glass-fronted door at the other end of the porch.
“Really?” He harrumphed in disgust. “Can’t anyone keep a military secret anymore?”
This provoked laughter from everyone in earshot. “Look who’s talking!” Jackson yelled at his friend’s back. “What about Doris?”
“Now, don’t you talk about my grandmother,” Ellen said as she opened the door for her grandfather.
“Mom?” Carl looked over his shoulder at her. “Is Dad coming?”
“I don’t think so, hon.” Ellen had a hand on her grandfather’s arm and was guiding him through the door. “He’s still away on his business trip. Now come inside… please.”
The living room took up most of the lodge’s ground floor. Paneled with dark, well-aged oak, there was a fieldstone fireplace at one end, with the inevitable moose head peering down from above the mantel. The hardwood floor was covered with handmade rugs, and although there were plenty of couches and overstuffed armchairs, with two sturdy rockers near the fireplace, metal folding chairs had been brought in to accommodate everyone. The walls were lined with old framed photographs; as Walker passed them, he noticed that the men in the pictures were the subjects of his book, taken in this place when they were young… when some, in fact, were younger than he was today.
That isn’t what drew his attention, though, but rather the man seated in the wheelchair parked between the two rockers. Lloyd Kapman was the oldest surviving member of the 390 Group; from his research, Walker knew that he’d turn one hundred in September. If he lasted so long; Kapman was even more frail than Morse or Jackson, and there was a plastic line leading from his nose to an oxygen tank strapped to the back of his wheelchair. Walker was surprised that he was even here. His home in Concord, Massachusetts, was only a couple of hours away, but even that distance was considerable for someone his age.
“How you doing there, Lloyd?” J. Jackson Jackson asked, as he and Henry Morse shuffled slowly to the rocking chairs. “Get enough to eat?”
Lloyd looked up at Jackson with sagging eyes and nodded. “My uncle had a good lunch,” replied a rotund, middle-aged man standing beside him. “He particularly enjoyed the turnip greens… didn’t you, Uncle Lloyd?” he added, raising his voice almost to a shout.
Kapman turned his head slightly to gaze at his nephew, and it seemed to Walker that he was quietly annoyed by the younger man’s patronage. “Someone… get me a cheeseburger,” he said softly, his voice an airless wheeze. “And a beer, too.”
“Sounds good to me.” Morse carefully lowered himself into a rocker. “Carl, run down to the cooler and fetch us a couple of beers. And get one for yourself, too.”
“Grandpa!”
“Dr. Kapman, I’m Douglas Walker.” Stepping closer, the writer offered his hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, and I appreciate you taking your time to…”
“Speak louder!” Kapman snapped, barely touching Walker’s hand.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Lloyd,” Jackson said. “Turn up your hearing aid.”
“What?” Kapman glared at him. “What? I can’t hear you.”
“Wait a sec.” Jackson reached to Lloyd’s head, touched a tiny plastic unit behind his ear. “How’s that?”
“Oh, yes… that’s better.” Kapman nodded gratefully. “Thanks, Jack.”
“You’re welcome, you old coot,” Jackson murmured as he sat down.
“What?”
Henry Morse chuckled, and everyone else who’d witnessed this exchange politely hid their smiles behind their hands. Jackson turned to Walker. “Go on, Mr. Walker. You were saying…?”
“Yes, right… of course.” Walker found a seat in the nearest armchair and opened his shoulder bag. “As I was saying, I’d like to thank all of you for taking the time to speak with me. I realize these reunions are very special for you, and I’m grateful that you’ve allowed me to attend. It’s the only chance I’ll have to interview all three of you at once, so…”
“Who… cleared you?” Kapman asked.
“Pardon me?”
“Who… gave you… security clearance?”
Walker started to laugh, but a sidelong glance at the two other men told him that this was a serious question. In fact, none of the people in the room—several relatives had followed them from the lawn, with more still coming in—seemed to think that Lloyd Kapman’s query about security clearance was strange at all.
“No one did, Dr. Kapman,” he replied. “They don’t have to. I mean, the Lucky Linda mission is a matter of public record. Nothing about it is classified anymore. Everyone knows what happened seventy years ago.”
“Not true.” Kapman slowly shook his head. “That’s… not true.”
“Lloyd is correct,” Jackson said before Walker could object. “There are several aspects of Blue Horizon that remain secret to this day. Only the three of us”—Ellen pointedly cleared her throat—“and the people in this room who’ve come to our previous reunions know the full story.”
“And we should keep it that way!” Kapman said angrily, then choked back a hacking cough. His nephew moved to comfort him, but the old man impatiently shook off his hand. “Cut it out, Tommy,” he muttered. “I’m not… dying today.” He took a couple of deep breaths from his oxygen tube, regained his wind, and went on. “I mean it. What… business do we have, breaking… silence?” He gestured to Walker. “If we let him… put it all in his book, then we could… compromise national security.”