and the group was too big for a secret like this to remain intact. It was time to let Joe Ward know. He had the most to lose, let him make the call. The problem now was how to get a message to him. They hadn't spoken since 1963, when he’d been transferred after the missile crisis ended.
Gillum leaned forward and opened his web browser. He searched several web sites but none revealed a phone number. The closest he could get was to send a message to the Vice President on the White House web page. He tried other searches, but every path ended on the same page. He began to fill out the form, hoping to include something that would force whatever intern or aid that was responsible for monitoring the page to pass it up the chain of command.
As he came to the subject line he wrote: Message from old Navy buddy . He hoped that would at least get the contents read. In the message section he wrote:
We served together during the Cuban Missile Crisis in Key West. I was wondering if you remember that pilot that came in light. I was working with you that day. Something has come up and I need to reach you about the pilot.
He clicked the box asking for a response, and closed the browser. It was a long shot, but hopefully the message would reach the VP.
***
Minutes later, the message appeared on the intern’s monitor. Max Van Doren was just finishing for the day. It was almost 8pm, but that was what it took to intern — do whatever they said and hope for the job offer or at least a good recommendation at the end of the term. One of his responsibilities was to monitor the messages on the VP's White House web page. It was actually an interesting part of his job, better than filing and research. The comments seemed to change with the wind. Some days it was a rage against the administration or rants against the VP, other days it offered praise. Max charted the comments on a spread sheet aimed at tracking which way the political flag was blowing. As the election neared, the comments were more polarizing.
He scrolled through each comment, deleting as he went, answering when called for. He had some latitude in answering the messages, and a blurry line defined what needed to be passed higher up. The message in front of him was one of those. The mention of the VP’s naval career and a direct reference to an incident flagged the message to go higher up. The check box for an answer was highlighted, indicating that the author hoped to hear back. He typed in his best robot: This message will be passed to the Vice President.
A copy of the message in his hand, he took the elevator from the basement of the Naval Observatory up to daylight. He followed the ornate corridor to the chief of staff’s office.
“Sir, got a minute?”
Dick Watson looked up from the pile of papers on his desk. No computer monitor was evident; the chief was strictly old school. “What is it?”
“This message came in on the comment page of the boss’s White House page.” He handed the paper over.
The older man glanced at the note. “I’ll pass this along. We were just talking about the boss’s service during the Cuban Missile Crisis this morning. Do we know who this guy is, or how to get a hold of him?”
“Just the basics from the form. Name, address, email.”
“In the future, you get something like this, why don't you save us all some time and find out what you can about who sent it. Check the name, run the address, let’s see if this is real.”
Max took the scolding in stride and headed back down to the dungeon.
***
Watson had the phone in his hand the minute the aide was out of hearing range. The Vice President’s personal secretary picked up on the second ring.
“Yes, sir.” She knew who it was from the caller ID.
“Is the boss around?”
“No, he’s shaking hands and kissing babies. In the middle of a fundraiser. Want me to pass along a message?”
“Slip him a note with the name Jim Gillum and Cuban Missile
Gillum leaned forward and opened his web browser. He searched several web sites but none revealed a phone number. The closest he could get was to send a message to the Vice President on the White House web page. He tried other searches, but every path ended on the same page. He began to fill out the form, hoping to include something that would force whatever intern or aid that was responsible for monitoring the page to pass it up the chain of command.
As he came to the subject line he wrote: Message from old Navy buddy . He hoped that would at least get the contents read. In the message section he wrote:
We served together during the Cuban Missile Crisis in Key West. I was wondering if you remember that pilot that came in light. I was working with you that day. Something has come up and I need to reach you about the pilot.
He clicked the box asking for a response, and closed the browser. It was a long shot, but hopefully the message would reach the VP.
***
Minutes later, the message appeared on the intern’s monitor. Max Van Doren was just finishing for the day. It was almost 8pm, but that was what it took to intern — do whatever they said and hope for the job offer or at least a good recommendation at the end of the term. One of his responsibilities was to monitor the messages on the VP's White House web page. It was actually an interesting part of his job, better than filing and research. The comments seemed to change with the wind. Some days it was a rage against the administration or rants against the VP, other days it offered praise. Max charted the comments on a spread sheet aimed at tracking which way the political flag was blowing. As the election neared, the comments were more polarizing.
He scrolled through each comment, deleting as he went, answering when called for. He had some latitude in answering the messages, and a blurry line defined what needed to be passed higher up. The message in front of him was one of those. The mention of the VP’s naval career and a direct reference to an incident flagged the message to go higher up. The check box for an answer was highlighted, indicating that the author hoped to hear back. He typed in his best robot: This message will be passed to the Vice President.
A copy of the message in his hand, he took the elevator from the basement of the Naval Observatory up to daylight. He followed the ornate corridor to the chief of staff’s office.
“Sir, got a minute?”
Dick Watson looked up from the pile of papers on his desk. No computer monitor was evident; the chief was strictly old school. “What is it?”
“This message came in on the comment page of the boss’s White House page.” He handed the paper over.
The older man glanced at the note. “I’ll pass this along. We were just talking about the boss’s service during the Cuban Missile Crisis this morning. Do we know who this guy is, or how to get a hold of him?”
“Just the basics from the form. Name, address, email.”
“In the future, you get something like this, why don't you save us all some time and find out what you can about who sent it. Check the name, run the address, let’s see if this is real.”
Max took the scolding in stride and headed back down to the dungeon.
***
Watson had the phone in his hand the minute the aide was out of hearing range. The Vice President’s personal secretary picked up on the second ring.
“Yes, sir.” She knew who it was from the caller ID.
“Is the boss around?”
“No, he’s shaking hands and kissing babies. In the middle of a fundraiser. Want me to pass along a message?”
“Slip him a note with the name Jim Gillum and Cuban Missile
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