The moon base project a novel by noah bond
There was no avoiding him; so Mason gamely asked the only obvious question. "What are you doing down here?"
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There was no avoiding him; so Mason gamely asked the only obvious question. "What are you doing down here?" "National Weather Service reports snow headed for Washington. Thought it was a good time to look after my charges." "Your charges?" "Marines in the Astronaut training program. One of the less remarkable duties my department has is to recommend Marines to NASA for Astronaut training. Then we keep track of them until they finish the program. When they finish, NASA takes over. If they don't finish the program, tradition calls for them to be sent to whatever version of Hell we have available at the time. Provides a whale of an incentive. Inter-service rivalry dictates that each service place as many Astronauts as possible." Then he added "They've got civilians now too," as though he didn't think it was a very good idea. "I thought you were in recruitment." "I still am. We're responsible for recruiting into the space program too. We like to keep it simple in the military. A recruiter recruits." By now they had entered the building and Mason had vaguely referred to doing some auditing by way of explaining his presence. The Major insisted they meet for dinner. To his own surprise, Mason readily agreed. He must have been lonelier than he thought. ///// During the day, the expected excesses appeared. For example, each mission carried supplies of food, water and oxygen far beyond what was needed for the mission. He figured this was simply precautionary, but the increase in payload was significant. He had tried unsuccessfully to imagine a circumstance in which ten days of extra supplies would save a mission which had failed to leave the Moon, or to achieve re‑entry. He found this line of thought depressing; so he turned to other matters. In computing the cost of each mission, he did not include the emergency lunar survival tents for the simple reason that all of these bulky devices still seemed to be in inventory (despite the fact that one was on the manifest of each of the last five missions). Again, this fit with his theory that there was no reason to prolong life a few days in the event of disaster, since rescue from the surface of the Moon was never a possibility. Why was it still on the manifests, though? The "super-cold Moon Suits" presented a similar puzzle. These high‑tech, super-insulated space suits designed for excursions into the dark side on later missions had arrived at the Space Center. Astronauts had trained in them. They had apparently been on the missions, but none were seen in the films. Nor had any returned to Earth. Maybe they were left on the Moon for weight reasons; they each weighed 236 lbs. on Earth But when were they used, and for what? ///// That evening at dinner, he asked if the Major was aware of four Marines who had quit the space program in 1969? "I never heard of such a thing," was the response. So Mason told him about the entry in the training records. The Major promised to look into it and to "clear the matter up" for him when he got back to Washington the next day, where, he understood, the weather was cold enough to "beeze your fralls off." Mason gave him his card with the date and names written on the back. He told him it was something he had stumbled across and about which he was curious, but that it was unrelated to his assignment, and unofficial. He also paid for both dinners. Nevertheless, Mason did not expect to hear anything. ///// Monday, April 19, 1993 "Major Marshall on Line 7 for you, sir," said the assistant librarian just before 2:00 P.M. "Hello Ken! I'm back in Washington. I thought I'd get back to you before the glacier moves in." "Chilly?" "Now don't get smug! At least nobody's getting skin cancer up here. Anyway, I checked on that report about the four Marines, and our records confirm they left the space program after completion of Apollo training, like you said. But, according to our records, we requested them back for some hush-hush mission. They didn't wash out." "No one said they washed out. It just seemed curious, is all. What happened to them? They never came back to NASA," prompted Mason. "They went to Nam on this secret mission. Assigned to NOMAD/Y Base, wherever the Hell that is. Couldn't find it on my map of Nam. Might be in Cambodia or Laos, for all I know. Probably not the name of any real place. All kinds of clandestine shit going on over there in those days. Wherever they went, they never came back. We notified their families. None of them had wives or children. They're listed as MIA, which at this point means they're probably dead but still drawing pay. I suspect some accountant is responsible for that." "Probably right," said Mason. What the Hell! He probably was right. "Well, thanks for satisfying my curiosity. Time for my stroll on the beach." "I hope a crab bites your ass." "Anything for a thrill. Take care." The Major hung up. ///// The evening was uneventful. No crab bites. The hotel had cable, and --- despite himself --- he was watching C-SPAN. There was a panel discussion. At the time, a former Soviet (now Russian) rocket scientist, Dr. Dmitri Shavinsky, was speaking in American English, which was being translated into British English by an unseen gentleman with a French accent. Mason opened a Carlsberg. True to the spirit of glasnost, the Russian was saying how easy the Americans made the Moon missions look, with the live television coverage and all. "If you had any idea...," thought Mason. Then the Russian said something which threw the panel into confusion and made Mason choke on his beer. According to the translation he said "The technological and logistical triumphs of the Moon program overshadowed the unfortunate loss of life in space." When other (American) members of the panel explained that there had been no such losses, he replied cryptically "There are always losses when there are gains." And life went on more-or-less peacefully for the panel on C-SPAN. "Mother of Pearl! What is he talking about?" said Mason out loud. The four missing Marines were on his mind again. The credits at the end of the program advised that Dr. Shavinsky was in America on a visit to the Kennedy Space Center. "Please don't be a re‑run," pleaded Mason to the television. His wish was granted. It had been taped earlier that day for viewing after Congress recessed for the day. ///// Tuesday, April 20, 1993 He was at the Kennedy Space Center early. When he stopped at the desk for his badge, he remarked that he had seen Dr. Shavinsky on television last night and heard he was going to visit. "I've been trying to find out how to say 'Welcome' in Russian, but nobody seems to know how," stated the guard. "I suppose no one thought it would come up." It turned out that Dr. Shavinsky was due next week. No problem to keep working until then. Later that day, he ran up against the secret experiments. Being secret, there were few numbers to analyze. This bothered him, he knew, solely because he was an auditor. The costs of secret experiments should have no bearing on the costs of sending a rocket to the Moon and bringing it back. The payload figures were available: the size and weight. It was obvious that the secret experiments were large and heavy. "Must have been big secrets." When he compared the mission reports with the manifests, it appeared that the actual cargos (excluding the Astronauts themselves) carried by the last five missions were several times greater than the cargos anticipated. Was this important --- or was it merely the normal human need to cram as much as could be safely held into the space available? ///// The telephone call from the office came at 3:10 P.M. It was Rae Kirkland, checking up on his progress. She began by saying, "You can't stay there until Summer." "Call me back when the snow melts and Washington returns to that heavenly state of 32-degree drizzle we've all come to know and love." "By the weekend, they say. I didn't realize you appreciated that stuff." "I'm from Cleveland. I get nostalgic for it." "How's it going?" she said, getting down to business. "There are a lot more grey areas than even usual, but I think I'm developing some useful figures. Is the GAO planning to send an auditor to the Moon?" "No. We'd like to send the House Budget Committee." Rae Kirkland was not really fearless; she just believed that no one cared much what the GAO said. She was right. "Any problems down there that might require my particular talents?" "Have I been gone that long? I don't recall you having any peculiar talents --- unless it's your uncanny ability to work the daily scrambled word puzzle in your head." "Once you start, you can't help yourself. If I could do the same with financial statements, I'd be running this place." "Don't kid yourself. You'd be too valuable to run the place." "That's some consolation," Kirkland admitted. "Now tell me all the interesting Astronaut secrets you've learned." "Well, they're like all good Americans. They like to go fast. They overpack. They play golf anywhere. They litter. And they take home movies." "That's the Japanese." "Ah so. And they have humongous secret experiments and quasi‑military terms." "Like what?" "What do mean like what? Like 'Commander' and 'mission' and 'NOMAD/Y Base'." This last example slipped out because he perceived that the others were not having any effect. He did not bother to explain that it was supposed to be in Southeast Asia. "Spell that for me." Rae Kirkland sensed a puzzle. "That's N O M A D slash Y." He added, "No fair writing it down." "No need to. I'll run it through the cerebral cortex until it's digested. I think I just mixed a metaphor. Is it important?" "I hope not," replied Mason. "If it is, mix one for me." Rae Kirkland called back within ten minutes. Without greeting, she said, "As you know, a nomad is one who wanders about regions we generally think of as deserts. Places which civilized people do not believe can sustain life. They roam about, never settling in one place, because one place can sustain them only for a short while. Does this have anything to do with the Moon?" "What you just said sounds like it could, but I don't think it does." By now he was sorry he had mentioned NOMAD/Y. But she continued, "Because NOMAD/Y is an acronym for 'Monday' if you ignore the slash, which I'm inclined to do. And 'Monday' is an ancient corruption of Moon Day, as in Sun Day, Moon Day, Zeus' Day, Wodens' Day, Thor's...well, you get the idea." Mason frowned. After a pause, he said, "That's very interesting. I'll let you know if it's helpful. Thanks for getting back to me." Then he put his head on the desk and let his mind rearrange all the anomalies he'd uncovered into a new --- albeit incomplete --- scenario. If NOMAD/Y was a reference to the Moon, then where were the Marines sent? ///// He was surprised he had fallen asleep. "The last of the deep thinkers," he mumbled to himself as he tried to restore circulation to the arm he had placed his head on. It felt like ginger ale. Sore ginger ale. As he drove the short distance back to the hotel, he kept thinking the unthinkable. What if the extra cargos had been destined for a lunar base? What if all the other stuff that was supposedly just lying around on the Moon --- super-cold suit Moon Suits and lunar rovers ‑‑‑ had actually been left in usable condition for future use. And what if the four missing Marines had been smuggled to the Moon on these missions? What had happened to them? ///// Meeting Dr. Shavinsky presented a challenge. There was no political reason for them to meet. They were not fellow scientists. There was no apparent common ground. How could he even get to the scientist, who was bound to have his own small retinue in addition to the entourage to be provided by NASA? Hell, the FBI or Secret Service might even be there. The more he thought about it, the more unhappy he became. Or maybe it was the beer. The store had been out of Carlsberg. "Can this happen in a civilized country?" he'd asked himself. Distracted, he'd bought an American lager instead. It made him wonder if chilled, carbonated hog drool would taste any better. "Perhaps a bit of the knitting up the raveled sleeve of care," he speculated. And went to sleep. Chapter Five Sunday, April 25, 1993 It was raining hard in the Maryland countryside, but it was still an improvement over Washington in the rain. Mason drove West amid the rolling hills in little traffic. It was Sunday morning and he'd had nothing particular to do; so he'd decided to visit the grave of Jonas MacPherson, Ph.D., Deceased. He drove the old Corvette like his grandmother would have: carefully. He wasn't a Corvette person. He'd bought it shortly after his wife had divorced him. It had been a gesture, a proclamation to all that he wasn't a dull person. Typically, nobody had noticed. Yet he had defiantly kept it for years, perhaps hoping his image would change to match the car. The opposite had happened. The car had become dull. It needed paint. The windows leaked. The upholstery was torn. The radio hadn't worked in years. Still, it gave him satisfaction. He could no longer see himself owning a real car. As for romance, he considered himself to be roadkill on the highway of love. As he spied the turnoff for the cemetery, he thought about the screwdrivers. He'd brought three kinds: Phillips head, flat head and Absolut. He figured he could use at least two of them. "Be prepared!" He had been a successful Boy Scout in terms of merit badges; too bad he invariably got lost in the woods. It didn't take long to find the headstone. It was one of many labeled "MacPherson." He was surrounded in death by his clan. There appeared to be no plot for Mrs. MacPherson. Maybe she would rest alongside her family in Western (not West) Virginia when the time came. The headstone was polished red granite. It contained the usual carved statistics and the suggestion that the departed Rest in Peace. "What are the alternatives?" Mason wondered just long enough to decide he didn't want to know. The lower portion held a brass plaque, which stated: IN RECOGNITION OF HIS SERVICE TO HIS COUNTRY National Aeronautics and Space Administration It was an unexpected tribute, a nice gesture. Mason was moved when he read it, recalling the dreams that had become reality when men walked on the Moon. It was also tarnished; so he decided to clean it up a bit --- even if it meant sacrificing some of the vodka and orange juice. The plate was held on by flat head screws with little brass rosette washers to improve their appearance. They came out easily. He got a rag from behind the seat of the car and removed the tarnish methodically. It was a secret he had learned when he'd failed to clean up spilled orange juice many years ago. Then he put ArmorAll on it to retard future corrosion. Before replacing it, he applied the rag to the mossy portion of the headstone which had been covered by the plaque. To his astonishment, there was writing. When cleaned, it said: FATHER OF THE MONDAY PROJECT. He stared at it and drank the rest of the screwdriver cocktail from the bottle until it was gone. Fortunately it was both small and weak, for he was barely aware that he was drinking. Then he got his camera from the car, wondering how long the film had been in it and what else might be on the roll. He took two pictures of the headstone without the plaque and two more after he had replaced it. Before he left, he took a handful of dirt and rubbed it over the plaque. He wasn't sure why he'd done that. Self-preservation is instinctive. 12,000 Light Years from Home written by Mick Jagger and Keith Richards performed by the Rolling Stones on their album Their Satanic Majesties Request (Abkco Music & Records). 2Silver Ball on the Roulette Wheel of Life is a song copyright 1971 by Jon Agee. 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