Each of the vessels moved “ ... like a saucer skipping on water...” Arnold noted later to reporters; and the image of a tea saucer skating through the sky, powered by mysterious beings, immediately took hold of America’s imagination.
Thus, although there had been odd aerial sightings before, including the bizarre “Foo fighters” that followed B-52 bombers in the Second World War, Arnold’s was the first sighting of “flying saucers.” The term quickly became a part of the English language, and the phenomenon immediately became a part of the American consciousness.
The air force immediately categorized the sightings as a “mirage.” Smooth, crystalline air conditions often contribute to a stable atmosphere necessary for inversions, as well as increasing the refraction index that creates mirages. But the air force explanation fell on deaf ears—the American public thrilled to the notion of weird objects tweaking officials’ noses, and the era of the flying saucer was born.
And a very odd era it is, the number of sightings of UFOs growing proportionally to the publicat-large’s interest in the phenomenon.
Dr. Everett Scarborough’s problem as a historian of this era—and a debunking historian at that—was that much of the facts concerning Unidentified Flying Objects was anecdotal. And because so many of the records were kept in popular literature—such as the books by Daniel Keyhoe and Frank Edward’s Flying Saucers, Serious Business—there were often no hard facts to work with, a must for concerned and qualified historians. That the facts in most pro-UFO books were often canted toward credulity and were journalistically underlined with un-provable observation and theory muddied the waters terribly. Thus, when Scarborough wrote about flying saucers, his concerns were just as much with UFO-ologist literatures as with the actual sightings of the objects themselves. This was why he kept such extensive files and records on the subject—including the files of his own extensive investigations, both on the field and in the library.
Because the field of study was swamped with such a wealth of nonsense, hoaxes, public misunderstanding, and government mix-ups and vagueness, it was extremely difficult to write clearly about it. This was where Everett Scarborough excelled. Any halfway-intelligent reader could understand perfectly what he was discussing in his books, his sense of organization and clarity were almost unswerving. Unlike the UFO-ologists who wrote about flying-saucer incidents with screaming speculation and blathering exclamation, Scarborough wrote clear factual prose, stating explicitly what was fact, what was supposition, and what was pure fiction, leavening it all with wit and eloquent style.
Readers of Scarborough’s books concerning the UFO phenomena—although he had written other books, the UFO material was the most popular—had a working knowledge of the basic outline of UFO history. They knew not only about the Arnold sighting and the “Foo fighters” during World War II, they also knew that “ghost ships” had plagued Scandinavian and European skies in the 1930s, and that not long after Pearl Harbor, a stationary craft drifted slowly along the Santa Monica Bay coastline, observed by thousands of Los Angeles residents, an event that was reported to President Roosevelt himself by General George Marshall. They knew that after more sightings of supposedly metallic, circular craft, the air force set up its first investigative probe into the subject, Project Sign, in 1947. And they knew that on January 7, 1948, Captain Thomas Mantell’s P-51 Mustang jet crashed while pursuing strange metallic objects climbing through the clouds.
They knew the air force was very concerned that these flying-craft sightings could be the work of the new communist enemies of the Soviet Union. They knew that in 1949 Project Sign was changed to Project Grudge, after a slew of rumors about alien saucer crash-landings in Roswell, Arizona, and Aztec, Arizona, which produced burnt alien bodies, were kept absolutely top secret. They knew that next came Project Blue Book, and the involvement of the Central Intelligence Agency working in tandem with the air force to investigate the possible threat of UFOs to the national security of the United States of America. They knew that it was Edward J. Ruppelt, the first director of Project Blue Book who had coined the term UFO—for Unidentified Flying Objects—which succeeded the misleading term “flying saucer.”
However, most important, Scarborough’s readers realized how the flames of interest in the phenomenon were kept fanned by a number of crackpots, opportunistic reporters, and media czars looking for exciting copy. His methodical dissection of the events leading up to the near mass-hysteria of the early fifties, when it was even rumored that Presidents Truman and Eisenhower personally had conferences with alien beings, remains a textbook example of classic social analysis—although his background was in physics and mathematics, college sociology teachers often assigned his book, Anatomy of a Stellar Hysteria, to students to read, particularly for its expert discussion of the 1951 movie The Day the Earth Stood Still’s influence on media and social behavior. His readers knew that after the crisis died down, it was the work of such fanatics as the loony dwarf Raymond Palmer—he of the infamous Shaver Mystery—and his publication, Flying Saucer, that kept interest in UFOs alive.
Scarborough’s readers also knew the intimate details of the work of a methodical UFO investigator, and they were treated to an almost day-by-day account of his consultancy work for Project Blue Book from 1966 until the Project was officially closed in 1969, bannering the conclusion that no conclusive evidence had been uncovered to prove that any UFO bore extraterrestrial life-forms.
Each of his books updated the trends and fads of the UFO field, so Scarborough’s readers were kept updated as to the latest weirdness. He took great delight in devoting whole sections of his books to kooky publications, groups and cults fostered by the UFO phenomenon, inviting readers to send for subscriptions to Saucerian Magazine, or California UFO, or other fringe groups, chortling in his prose at their ludicrous articles.
The most engaging thing about Dr. Everett Scarborough’s books, and one of the principal characteristics that separated him from other debunkers, was his admission that the reason the whole UFO phenomenon was so popular—and indeed, why he was able to make such a good living discussing it—was that it was so entertaining. Thus, Scarborough’s readers also knew that when they studied the facts of this odd phenomenon they weren’t just looking at hard cold data—they were peering into the warped netherlands of human eccentricity.
Nonetheless, those who read Dr. Everett Scarborough’s publications knew that the books were extensively researched, and that the facts were always straight. Scarborough often spoke during lectures and interviews of his extensive library on the subject, and of his extensive files of data, culled from his own investigations of UFO sightings, as well as from those of others.
It was for this reason that when Scarborough went to his filing cabinets, looking for his version of the documents that his friend Eric MacKenzie had requested, what he found—or, rather, what he did not find—was quite a shock.
Scarborough kept his filing cabinets in his furnace room. It was the unfinished part of the cellar, separated from his library and stereo room by a wood-framed dry-board divider. The bank filing-cabinets were situated against this divider, five big, bulky grey ones, scuffed and marked and banged. Unlike MacKenzie, who had “borrowed” his from the U.S. Air Force, Scarborough had picked these up legitimately at a government auction for very little money. He shuddered to think about all the years of bureaucratic service they’d put in, but they were serviceable enough for his purposes: namely, to store documents that he very rarely examined, but that he didn’t care to throw away.
It was a Sunday afternoon when Scarborough went down to dig through the files, and his mood was as grey as the sky that had moved in over the D.C. area, dragging with it a cool spell and the taste of rain. He’d slept late that day, a rarity for him—and when he awoke, his face hurt worse than ever. He dragged himself out of bed, changed his bandage, happy to find no signs of rot or gangrene, and then fixed himself a pot of coffee, trying to kill the Sunday blues with his Sunday ritual o
f reading the fat Washington Post and the fatter New York Times back-to-back. One of the many nice things about the Post and the Times was that there were hardly ever reports of UFOs in their august pages. Reviews of his books he suffered gladly—but when he read the two best papers in the world, he knew his mind could relax from dealing with the barbarities of flying saucers and plunge into the cold waters of nuclear treaties, drug epidemics, disease discussion, business takeovers and Calvin and Hobbes. Ah, sweet reality!
But finally, after staring just a little longer at the New York Times Non-fiction Hardcover Bestseller List with Above Us Only Sky seated securely at Number Eight, he poured another cup of coffee, added some 1 percent milk-fat Lucerne, wrapped himself up in his heavy blue cotton robe, and traipsed downstairs to deal with those goddamn files.
He put a Sir Neville Marriner and The Academy of St. Martins-in-the-Field Mozart CD into the stereo, found the packet of Xeroxes that Mac had sent him, and examined them for a few moments, so that he knew just what the hell he was looking for. This Iowa investigation—that was what Mac had the bee in his bonnet about ... It should be easy enough to locate his notes on the subject.
He had to admit that he was very hurt by the way his friend had acted the night before, but it was not the first time that the two had argued. And it was always the same. Mac with his Irish temper, and him with his obstinate stands on things. They’d argued about politics, women, even the best kinds of whiskey—often coming close to blows. But still, it had never gotten this personal before; always it was a manly, bluff kind of argument, a defense of facades rather than of inner territory. Last night, though, they’d apparently hurt each other, and Everett felt pretty bad about that. So, after a drink or two more, he’d decided, hell, it wasn’t worth it. He’d have to look at the files, talk this over with Mac in a civilized way, and they’d get their relationship back on track.
The guy was way off base, of course, but Scarborough supposed it was best to humor him, maybe even patronize him, rather than jeopardize their buddyship.
They’d always been friends. They’d always enjoyed talking, and playing cards. Scarborough had been surprised when he’d actually thoroughly enjoyed the fishing trips that MacKenzie dragged him on, although he drew the line at hunting. He had a diehard liberal’s viewpoint on firearms, favoring rigid control of handguns and harboring a general distaste for all kinds of guns. He regretted deeply having to own one—even though it was registered. He’d even written a soul-searching article on the subject. A favorite uncle of his had died in a hunting accident when he was just eleven, and he’d immediately thrown away all his boyhood gun-toys. Although he’d worked with the armed forces, he’d never actually joined them, shunning them by avidly pursuing his academic career at Harvard and then MIT, and thus being deferred from any possible draft.
Nonetheless, the bond between the men had started when they discovered they had the capacity for deep and meaningful conversations about anything under the sun—or, for that matter, far beyond it. Their conversations were often marathon—they sparked off each other, there was a magical alchemy of words between them, often fueled by alcohol, but that addition wasn’t necessary. Whole worlds had opened for both of them in merely knowing each other—MacKenzie’s fiction often featured characters ... mostly heroes, though the occasional playful villain popped up from time to time ... modeled on Dr. Everett Scarborough. And Captain Eric MacKenzie’s world of action and adventure infected Scarborough’s books with a sense of excitement. Indeed, it had been MacKenzie’s work with Scarborough’s prose in the late sixties and early seventies that had shown the scientist how to stop writing for a stuffy world of academia, and construct clean, vibrant, masculine sentences that grabbed a reader by the scruff of his neck and said, “Hey you! Pay attention!”
They’d always been buddies, true, but the relationship had deepened radically when Phyllis Scarborough had become ill. Eric MacKenzie had been there for both of them during those long, cruel months. He’d even moved his typewriter to their house for a whole month while Phyl was in the hospital, helping with Diane and fixing meals and generally serving as a lifesaver in the time of Death. But the breast cancer had metastasized down to Phyllis’s liver, and not even Mac’s verve and bravado and crude jokes could keep her from eventually slipping away. He had stayed on awhile for the funeral and afterward, playing gin rummy with Scarborough, getting him to critique his latest novel in manuscript, and demanding some first-class research on entomology from the scientist for his next, The Immolator Meets the Insects. Of all Scarborough’s friends and family, only Mac understood just how threatening this death was to Everett’s mental health. Only he somehow instinctively understood, as Phyllis had, that all the logic and science, the mathematics and rigid structure in Everett’s life was his attempt to organize, catalogue, and cope with the seemingly meaningless chaos of life, a chaos that had just torn the very soul from his body, his beloved wife. Of course Mac never mentioned this, never even brought the subject up. Everett Scarborough’s brilliant talents of logic, deduction, and scientific inquiry were the constant butts of his jokes, but he never ventured into the touchy psychological causes, though he knew them. Phyllis had told Mac about Everett’s childhood and adolescence—and though Scarborough would never have mentioned the painful background of his youth, he did not mind Mac knowing.
Yes, in those days of IVs and medicine smells, gritted teeth and murmured comfortings, even Eric MacKenzie had no idea of just how close the great Dr. Everett Scarborough had come to that edge he had so closely skirted in his youth. But it was the MacKenzie’s presence—along with his love for his daughter, and sheer, stubborn willpower—that kept him from tumbling into the chasm. For Captain Eric MacKenzie sensed the inner storms that raged beneath the rigid control. Mac did not question his friend’s lack of tears at Phyllis’s funeral, nor his seemingly stoic acceptance of his loss. He knew that with Scarborough’s psychology, cold control was absolutely necessary, for if emotion were allowed to reign unchecked, there was the possibility that it might never stop.
Yes, thought Scarborough as he approached his files. There was that bond between him and Mac ... that bond of understanding and compassion. And, in tum, Mac had let him peripherally know of his own deepest fears, griefs, and feelings—the raw stuff which fed the mighty writing machine that powered out that stream of books.
Each of the drawers were labeled with cards slipped into the slots above their metal handles. Scarborough turned on the fluorescent above them, and as the strip light flickered to life, he began to scan the drawers. It had been a long time since he’d used those files documenting his work with Project Blue Book. Not since he’d written the book about his years working with the air force. He’d forgotten where exactly the files were. Thank goodness for records and libraries and files—his memory was not getting any better with age.
He found the drawer in the fourth filing cabinet, second one down. It was labeled simply, PROJECT BLUE BOOK, in IBM courier-type. He smiled to himself, remembering the faithful cataloguer who had typed those letters. Phyllis Scarborough. He touched the yellowing card.
“Yes, Phyl. I guess l owe it to crazy old MacKenzie to have a look at my stuff on the Iowa case.”
He opened the drawer.
The documents were filed in manila folders, with labeled tabs proclaiming their contents. “The Lights in Massachusetts,” one read. “The Rexton Family Incident” read another. “The Hill Report” was Scarborough’s investigation of Betty Hill’s further sightings of flying saucers, a case which had convinced him of her mental instability, after her husband had died in 1968. As he recalled, though, the folder appropriate to MacKenzie’s concerns was a hefty one, simply marked “Iowa.”
Sure enough, there it was, properly alphabetized and everything.
Only something seemed very odd about it. Scarborough picked it out from its fellows, and the difference was apparent immediately: it was much too thin.
In fact, when Scarborough opened it
, it proved to be totally empty. That was funny, thought Scarborough. Had he gotten the documents of the Iowa investigation somehow mixed up with other files? Surely if he’d taken the file out, he’d have replaced the papers if he replaced the folder.
He spent the next half hour methodically paging through the entire drawer, but he could find no sign of the missing papers.
In fact, he found two other folders similarly empty but which should have been stuffed: the “Tujunga California” sightings, and the “Hudson Valley Report.”
He took the empty folders out and went upstairs to his office, where he made an immediate call to MacKenzie’s hotel.
“I’m sorry,” said the operator. “But Captain MacKenzie has already checked out.”
“I see,” said Scarborough. “Thank you.”
Well, he’d call tomorrow night. Just as well, anyway, because now Everett Scarborough knew what he was going to have to do.
He was going to have to go to Colonel Dolan, the big man himself. Mac was right. He was the only man who might have the answers on this one.
Troubled, Scarborough poured himself another cup of coffee, went downstairs and proceeded looking through his other files.
Chapter 14
“You fucking, rotten bastard,” said the balding man with the nose like W.C. Fields, only not as smooth. “You’re damn lucky we’re in the twentieth century. Otherwise I’d have your head on a pike and your balls pickled in a jar!”
The balding man was Howard Kozlowski, Jake Camden’s boss, the publisher, editor-in-chief, and owner of the National Intruder. His hairy fingers were wrapped around Jake’s lapels, and if his face were any closer, Jake knew that he’d either be kissing him or chewing off his lips. Jake could smell the scent of the man’s onion-and-lox bagel breakfast still lingering about his mouth.
The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy Page 18
