Hunter's Moon (24 page)

“No other perk comes close,” he told us. “The White House and staff were great, don't get me wrong. You have a basketball court, putting greens, tennis, a private movie theater, even a bowling alley—which I never used. It always struck me as a little sad, frankly, because it was about the only thing Richard Nixon enjoyed during his last days. Bowling alone.”

In the West Wing, he said, Friday was Oreo yogurt day, and the kitchen turned out the earth's best french fries, 5 p.m. sharp.

“But there was something special about that plane,” he told us. “The backup, too—neither is officially Air Force One until the president steps aboard. Wray loved the whole ceremony because it meant freedom. Walking across the South Lawn to the helicopter, she'd be smiling. Her
real
smile. And it got bigger when she stepped off and saw Air Force One waiting, the honor guard at attention.

“We could relax there. Her office was forward, next to mine. She'd work while I'd do an hour on the elliptical. Or she might go aft and make sure there were plenty of souvenirs for the press corps to take home. Matches, china, blankets. Those people take anything not nailed down. But even they loosened up a little once we got airborne.

“President Clinton used to go back and play cards all night with reporters. Shoot the bull like a regular guy until reporters hammered him over that intern business. Harry Truman—he called his plane
The Independence
—he'd loosen up with a couple of drinks, and he always had the pilot notify him when they were over Ohio. Senator Taft was from Ohio and Harry hated the man. He'd get up and take a piss over Ohio every time.

Wilson laughed, hands on the yoke, looking military with his buzz cut and earphones, straightening the microphone when he spoke. He had a lot of stories about Air Force One, most assembled from his talks with the crew: Gerald Ford was their alltime favorite president because he was such a decent man. President Reagan was the most charismatic, Carter was the most family oriented, George H. W. was the funniest, Clinton was the smartest, and Lyndon Johnson was the crudest and rudest.

“If he got a steak he didn't like, he'd dump it on the floor. He made military aides wash his feet and cut his toe nails.”

Tomlinson said he'd read somewhere that Johnson had huge testicles and, after a few highballs, he wasn't shy about showing them.

“Didn't he walk around naked on Air Force One?”

Wilson ignored the question. He wasn't going to confirm something negative about a member of the club.

“The best thing about that aircraft,” he said, “was to land in Peking, or Baghdad, or Cartagena”—he gave me a slight nod—“and to look back at that great big gorgeous 747 from the tarmac. UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, in that don't-screw-with-us lettering, and the presidential seal. Like it had been chiseled from the Rockies; a force that had come a long distance to protect, to do good things, to stand for something . . . better.”

For a moment, I thought Wilson had gotten choked up. But then I realized he was concentrating on the instruments. We'd have to switch fuel tanks soon.

“What does the crew say about you, sir?”

“Well . . . I hope they say they enjoyed working for me. Leadership is the art of getting someone to do something you want done because they want to do it. Eisenhower said that. They loved Wray. Like the rest of the staff, they knew the kindness in my speeches came from her—she was more than my occasional ventriloquist. But they respected my record as a pilot, if nothing else. So they worked hard to please us. No boss can ask more than that.

“Before we decided not to run for a second term, our strategy guys said I should do my last few press conferences standing in front of Air Force One. It communicates such power. Wray was heartbroken when we decided not to do four more years. A big part of the disappointment, I think, was how much she enjoyed her time on that aircraft.”

“Sam?” Tomlinson had gotten so used to calling the president that it seemed natural. “If the late Mrs. Wilson wanted to run again, why didn't you?”

Wilson's expression changed. “Check the history books. That's a question I've answered too many times to repeat.”

He pushed his microphone armature up.

End of conversation.

Tomlinson said, “It's the Days of the Dead.
That's
why I've felt this weird vibe. All afternoon—since those damn pigs attacked us.”

We were standing outside a hut roofed with palm thatching. The thatching was a foot thick, intricately woven. A Halloweenstyle tableau had been constructed outside the door: candles carved as skeletons, a table with offerings of liquor and twists of tobacco.

It had taken me a moment to remember that in Mexico and parts of Central America, the first two days of November are celebrated as Dias de Muertos.
Days of the Dead.

Deceased children are honored on November 1st, adults on November 2nd. Today was the third, but the shrines would be around for weeks.

I said, “The pigs didn't attack us. You were paranoid. Probably some type of withdrawal.” I was trying to humor him because his expression was so serious. Dread and disgust, like before.

“No,” he said. “They wanted me, man. I could see it in their piggy little eyes.” He cringed. “I was never afraid to die until I thought about getting eaten by a pig. A fucking
pig
, man. Anything but that.”

We were on the remnant of a volcano that protruded from Lake Nicaragua. It was one of the largest of the Solentiname Islands, an archipelago of more than thirty islands clustered at the lake's southern end.

We'd landed at 5 p.m., near a settlement of three huts, all furnished but empty. A man had been waiting for us on the dock. Vue. He had a backpack and a couple of boxes with him, plus a row of gas cans. It was as if he'd just arrived himself.

The little giant had appeared upset. Maybe because he didn't expect us until the next day. Which didn't compute—he also seemed in a hurry.

He'd nodded at Tomlinson and me as he helped Wilson out of the plane, then immediately steered the man toward a private spot ashore to talk. As they started down the dock, I heard Vue say, “Mr. President, I'm very sorry I fail you. Secret Service discovered you missing yesterday morning. And there is more bad news . . .” Vue's voice became a whisper, and I didn't hear anything else.

Since then, Tomlinson and I had been left on our own. A relief for all three of us, probably. I got the plane secured while Tomlinson carried our gear to the door of the shack. Part of my duty was to tie the aircraft fast near overhanging trees, then cover it with camouflage netting Wilson had packed.

The man was good at details.

When I was finished, I returned to the hut. Presumably, we would sleep here. Wilson had an ally in the region who had a lot of power—that was apparent. The Solentiname Islands are isolated, but not all of the islands are uninhabited. About a hundred people, mostly fishermen and artists, live in the area. Yet someone had arranged for these huts to be vacated for our use.

It was now only 6 p.m. but volcanoes to the west were already silhouetted, mushroom clouds tethered to their rims. The Pacific Ocean would be visible from those craters.

“Do you think we should interrupt them to ask which hut we should use?” Tomlinson meant Wilson and Vue, who were standing near the lake's edge, focused on their discussion.

I said, “The man doesn't have any problem giving orders. He'll tell us if we take the one he wants.”

Spooked by the tableau, Tomlinson had stacked our gear outside the hut. I took a backpack, opened the door, peeked in, and saw beams of raw timber with hammocks strung between supports. Oil lanterns on a table.

“Nice,” I said. “Smells like wood smoke.”

I went inside, claimed a hammock, then searched until I found cans of Vienna sausages and an unopened bottle of Aguadiente hidden in a sack of rice. I opened the bottle, poured half a tumbler for myself, a tumbler three-quarters full for Tomlinson, then went outside to find him. He was leaning against a tree smoking a joint.

“I guess you won't be needing this,” I said.

“What?”

“It's cheap cane rum.”

He thrust his hand out and took the glass. “The hell I won't.”

We drank the warm liquor and talked about the things travelers talk about—home, mostly. Friends; what they were probably doing right now.

“Vienna sausages,” Tomlinson smiled, “one of nature's perfect foods. Drink the juice, then eat the little bastards. One of the few staples I miss since becoming a vegetarian.”

Later, I went for a swim, then dozed off reading by lantern light. Moths found their way into the hut. Their wings threw gigantic shadows.

Around nine, Wilson tapped on the door and poked his head in. “We can hike to the site from here. We'll leave before first light. Six-thirty sharp.”

I was half asleep and confused. After the door closed, I said, “Hiking where? What's he talking about?”

Tomlinson was in a hammock across the room. He had the Aguadiente bottle cradled beside him. Half empty.

“The site where the plane burned,” he said, his voice monotone. “The man wants me to visit where his wife died.”

 

 

 

I AWOKE TO THE RUMBLE OF THUNDER AND A RAIN-FRESH wind filtering through the thatched roof. It was 6 a.m. and Tomlinson was already up. He had a fire going outside, coffee steaming. I took a leak off the dock, went for a swim, and returned as storm clouds assembled in pale light to the east.

“I dread this,” Tomlinson said, handing me a mug of coffee.

I took a sip, then another, saying, “It's bad. But it's not that bad,” trying to get him to laugh.

He did. But then said, “I mean visiting the crash site.”

“I know.”

“I'm pulling out today around noon. Sam gave me the news a little bit ago. Vue and I are driving to some hacienda near the Panamanian border, taking excess gear to lighten the load. It's only a hundred twenty miles and he's got a rented Land Rover. I'll fly home from San José or Panama City tomorrow night.”

I was surprised.

“Visiting the wreck is the only reason he wanted me to come on the trip. He wants to know what his wife experienced when the plane caught fire. And any other details. He's aware I have psychic powers.”

I said, “So he's told me. But I'm curious—what convinced him? He's not what you would call a frivolous man.”

“You can say that twice. He's about as warm as a brass hemorrhoid tester. But . . . likeable, too, in a weird way.”

You never met before the party on Useppa?”

“No.”

“Do you agree his interest in Buddhism was just an act?”

“I've known that since we left for Key West.”

“So you weren't invited because of your book?”

“I doubt if he read it.”

I asked again. “Then what convinced him you have psychic powers? I assume he hasn't told you the reason.”

Tomlinson's reaction was unexpected. I've known him so long, I can read his mannerisms nearly as well as he can read mine. There was guilt in his expression; confusion, too.

“As a matter of fact, he
did
tell me. Not everything. But enough to jog the old memory banks. And to know what he said is true.” His laughter was forced. “Kind of a shocker. I'm a little embarrassed I didn't tell you.”

“You've known for a while?”

“Since a few days after the party. We met privately for drinks on Cabbage Key. He rented the Cabbage Patch so we could talk confidentially.”

I was looking beyond a hedge of banana plants, where stalks grew heavy-fingered like yellow fists. President Wilson and Vue were walking toward us as I said, “There's no reason to be embarrassed. For the last couple of years, your memory's been returning a little piece at a time, I know that. Electroshock therapy erases memory. It's documented.”

The gentle smile on his face told me he was aware I was being kind. “Well . . . truth is, I've remembered bits and pieces of what he told me for quite a while. I guess I was ashamed. You see”—he broke off several bananas and tossed one to me—“back when I was at Harvard I got involved in a research project. I needed money. Didn't know what I was getting into—a secret sort of deal at the time. But it all came out later. A program called ‘Stargate.' ”

I did a bad job of hiding my surprise because then Tomlinson said, “So now you understand why I'm ashamed. I worked for those right-wing weirdoes more than a year.”

I was familiar with the project. There was no right-wing association and only critics called it “Stargate.” The Pentagon referred to the project as “Asymmetrical Intelligence-Gathering Research.” It began in the 1970s when U.S. intelligence agencies learned that the Soviets were recruiting clairvoyants and telepathic savants to work as “psychic spies.”

The CIA and U.S. Defense Intelligence Agency took it seriously enough to establish a similar program. The project was funded until the mid-'90s, and employed many dozens of “psychics” over a period of twenty years. Some in the intelligence community say it produced usable product, others say it was a waste of millions.

I was smiling despite the implications. “You worked for the CIA?”

“Isn't that a kick in the pants?” Tomlinson said. “Somewhere, right now, Tim Leary is rolling over in his grave. But it's not like the agency gave me a decoder ring and showed me the secret handshake. I sat in a room at a military base in Maryland while a guy in a lab coat asked me questions. I remember looking at a lot of maps and pointing at places. That particular extrasensory gift is called ‘Remote Viewing.' ”