by John Tures

            “It is the very error of the moon. She comes more nearer Earth than she was wont, and makes men mad.” William Shakespeare. “Othello.”

            Avery Chase regarded the mansion she was about to break into, but she was no thief. The mission was to steal secrets, but she was no spy. Her quest was to finally get proof that the moon landing was faked and reveal the truth to the world for her news publication.

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            Her target was not a safe, a file, or a secret document. It was a person. Beyond that security perimeter, guarded within the two-story house by an array of cameras and detection devices lay an ailing astronaut, near the end of his life.

            Flip Horner had been there throughout it all, from Mercury to Gemini to the Apollo missions. He put his boots on the Moon’s surface, drove one of the Lunar Rovers, and even threw a frisbee on camera, which stayed aloft all the way to a lunar crater off in the distance. It became as iconic as Alan Shepard’s golf shot. Rumor had it that he was going to lead the mission to link up with the Soviets, but he had one bourbon too many before an interview with CBS’ “60 Minutes” and mouthed off about how NASA was blocking women female minorities from space missions. In the early 1970s, that was a fast track from serious space stuff to a desk job. He was even appointed to fill a senator’s term for a year or two by a governor hoping to cash in on the space craze.

            But a stint in Congress hadn’t taught Flip to hold his tongue. He was a favorite on the science fiction circuit for claiming he was sure there was alien life close by. NASA hadn’t let him anywhere near the Space Shuttle missions, but he did get guest appearances on V, Star Trek, and the voice of a character in a Star Wars cartoon series.

            Two years ago, Flip started hinting that America didn’t know the whole story about the Apollo space program and what it did or didn’t do. Conspiracy theorists went crazy, while NASA forced him off the public lecture circuit. A month ago, the agency began confining him to this compound “for his health.”

            Davis Cunningham, the owner and editor of The Story’s Edge, the hottest online news site, was so sure Flip would “flip” on NASA and tell all that he sent his ace reporter with a mission: get the truth from the ex-astronaut, on the eve of a big anniversary of the last lunar landing. He was holding the top spot on the web page for her and had the best pop-up ads and clickbait to run with her story.

            Chase broke cover from the trees and bounded toward the scrub brush nearest the fence. She was clad in an all-black bodysuit, with her blonde hair pulled into a ponytail, tucked under her ski hat. Facial paint covered the parts not concealed by the black N95 mask. Soft footwear replaced heavy boots, not ideal for the outdoors, but invaluable indoors. From her backpack, she extracted the wire cutter to snip a semicircle in the fence.

            Her skills were a combination of gymnastics and workouts with a private security firm she had infiltrated for an article for The Story’s Edge. Once the fence was cut, she crept along it until she was close enough to the pool area. Climbing a large floodlight fixture wasn’t easy, but she had to so she could spoof the security camera. She did the same to the second, right by the house.

            It was a lot to do for a story, even for a relatively well-paid journalist. But for Avery Chase, the truth was everything, going back to the day she learned from a relative that she was adopted as a child. She was the one in high school who broke the story for the school paper about the anatomy teacher who forced a few classmates to do his bidding or flunk his course. In college, she exposed the truth about the fundraiser who used donations to feather her nest. For The Story’s Edge, she had done everything, even stealing a nurse’s uniform to snag an “interview” with the drugged-out lead singer of the heavy metal band “Night Pain.” She also cracked a safe at the company “Red Armor” to show they were cheating the Defense Department on contracts.

            The electronic lockpick set worked like a charm at the backdoor, and she was inside the house. Her sensors showed the red laser beams at the base of the stairs. A spray bottle revealed their path. Chase used her special skills to vault those red lines and drop soundlessly on the third step by using the banister. With a dancer’s grace, she made it to the second floor and tiptoed down the hallway to the bedroom. Peering inside, she could hear Mrs. Horner softly snoring, alone in the bed. Where was Flip?

            A light down the hall from what had to be a library gave her hope. She tiptoed quietly toward the door, rubbing a substance on the hinges that would keep them from squeaking. Pushing the door ajar enabled her to see a figure in an overstuffed chair, reading James Michner’s book Space, alone. Perfect. She slipped inside and was stunned to be confronted by another voice she knew so well.

            “Well, hello Miss Chase. And how is Mr. Cunningham? Has he recovered from that knee injury in pickleball, I wonder?”

            The reporter gritted her teeth. She may as well step inside and face the music. Or, more accurately, confront the NASA director.

            “Thanks for asking, Mr. Harrison,” she replied. “He should be able to treat it with therapy and avoid surgery.”

            In the chair opposite the famed astronaut was the figure of Jack Harrison, the stocky man who had worked his way up from driving the lumbering vehicles that moved rockets at Cape Canaveral to his present position at the newly-minted “Space Force” division.

            “We were just watching your progress via the security camera from the roof, the one I installed today after you completed your morning reconnoiter with those binoculars. The other camera inside was hanging from the light fixture at the top of the stairs. It’s a newer model, small and harder to see. You showed excellent evasion tactics. Take ballet in your youth?”

            “Gymnastics.”

            “That was my second guess.”

            “So what is the penalty for coming here to get the truth?” She wondered why he hadn’t summoned the security guards, whose patrol intervals were predictable and had been avoided up until now.

            “We intend to give you the truth,” Jack Harrison replied.

            “Which is—” she began, but Flip cut her off. The astronaut sounded less addled and was much sharper than he had been in public over the last two years.

            “The moon landings were real.”

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            Avery Chase folded her arms. “That’s not the breaking story my boss was looking for.”

            “But I can assure you, as one who has been on the Moon, that it’s true,” the astronaut insisted.

            Over the next thirty minutes, he answered every question, rebutted every argument or theory until she was mentally spent.

            “Okay, so you’ve been to outer space and found that rock isn’t made of bleu cheese.”

            “Green cheese.”

            “Whatever!” She threw up her hands in surrender, and then whirled on Harrison. “I guess there’s no story then. DC is going to be pissed at me for promising him one.”

            “Oh, you’ll give him the article he wants, convincing the world that we never landed on the moon,” the NASA Director insisted. “It will claim all of the operations were staged.”

            “Wha—”

            “We want you to report that the Moon landings were faked. Ask your questions again to Mr. Horner, please.”

            She complied. This time, in a raspy voice, head lolling about, Flip spun a wild tale about soundstages, special effects, and a slew of actors and actresses, playing their parts to perfection, before he slumped back in his chair, eyes closed, breathing rapidly. When she stopped recording it, Flip’s eyes popped open. “How was that, ma’am?”

            She sighed. “Great—for my editor. But I want the truth.”

            While she fiddled with a locket dangling from a chain around her neck, Harrison pulled out a manila folder and handed it to her.

            “What’s this?”

            He said nothing. She opened it and retrieved a yellow piece of paper.

            “Your father was a Gemineer?”

            He nodded. “An engineer for the program.”

            She scanned the rest of the letter. “Wait, why was he laid off?”

            Harrison struggled to begin. “Budget cutbacks. Some of it was to pay for the Vietnam War. But most of it was that the public lost interest once we did make it to the Moon. Why fund repeated visits? Mars was too far away, and détente had arrived, cooling down superpower tensions. No more missions or space programs, so no more need for my dad. He drank himself to death in three short years. The coroner thought it was kinder to write ‘heart attack’ on the death certificate.”

            Chase’s eyes reddened, remembering her sister’s DUI and incarceration.

            “I’m sorry. So—you’re getting back at NASA for canning him?” she guessed.

            “No. I’m saving NASA.”

            She shook her head. “I don’t get it.”

            Harrison’s face achieved a pained expression. “Let me explain. Most people only seemed to care if there was a Space Shuttle explosion, just like those who watch NASCAR for the crashes. Only space nerds like the hi-res Hubble photos. And we don’t have the budget to make it back to the Moon. We now say it was another Nixon coverup, to get reelected. It’ll be a new race to the Moon, not just against international bad-boy Vladimir Putin, but Xi Jinping’s China as well. The Japanese and Europeans could give us some friendly competition. We’ll spend to win the new space race, and maybe less on weapons of war. It’ll recapture America’s attention, perhaps make us a little more unified. And with today’s technology, we could get enough budgetary juice to make it to Mars.”

            Chase’s jaw dropped. This was the story of the decade.

            Harrison continued. “We fed information to a few disgruntled employees, directed an administration leak here and there, and allowed a successful “hack” of a classified database. Your exclusive with the reclusive Flip Horner will be icing on the cake.”

            Avery Chase gave a rueful smile. “Okay, Mr. Harrison. You’ll get your lead.” She pocketed the recording device she had taken out earlier and had used for the ex-astronaut.

            The NASA director checked his watch. “You have thirty minutes until your deadline, so you’d better go. Could you please exit with the same stealth as to when you entered this house? It will make your story seem more authentic, that you escaped with your exclusive.”

            She spun on her heel and disappeared with only the hallway and rooftop cameras to monitor her egress. Once through the cut semicircle in the fence, she dashed toward her car. Inside, she flipped on her communications device.

            “You’re cutting it close, Chase. Got the story?” her boss barked.

            “Yes, Davis,” she replied. “Just give me a few minutes to get the recording ready to load up to you.”

            “You’ve got five minutes, maybe six,” he growled and then switched off.

###

            In one hand, she held the recording device of the “interview” with Flip Horner, the greatest “evidence” yet of the fake lunar landing. She would be world famous for breaking the story.

            From the chain around her neck, she extracted from the locket, a secret recording. It was proof that the Moon landing was real, and NASA was behind the conspiracy theories out there. She would be just as much of a rock star in reporting for that news flash. But if she posted the fake interview, she would be throwing the astronauts and scientists from the late 1960s and early 1970s under the bus, undermining America’s greatest achievement.

            But wasn’t Harrison right? That conspiracy theory would pave the way for even greater scientific achievements for all mankind. Revealing the truth could undermine that renewed push for the Moon and Mars.

            Yet wasn’t the NASA director always a step ahead of her? He might’ve known about her locket from an anti-bugging device. Revealing the real interview would knock down the arguments from conspiracy theorists about fake Moon landings. That locket recording would make everyone believe that the U.S. made it to the Moon, when NASA may never have in the first place.

            So, should she release recording number one with Flip? Or provide her news site with recording number two, with Harrison’s scheme?

            Chase’s communication device chirped. “Where’s that recording? You’ve got a minute before we go live! I’ve hyped this enough so that the rest of the media world is tuned in to report your findings.”

            “Copy, DC,” she replied.

            The Space Program? Country? Science? Truth? Whose truth?

            She plugged one of her devices into the laptop.

            “It’s loading now.”

            After a few seconds, Davis Cunningham sounded ecstatic. “Wow! This is perfect!”

            She smiled. Mission accomplished.