The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy

by David Bischoff

  Cunningham looked at him, her Nordic features cold, her eyes piercing. “As I assured you, Mr. Justine performed this evening. He will perform, on-call, in the future. He is the best.”

  “I dunno, Julia. He’s getting awfully twitchy.”

  “Justine is my creation, Mr. Richards,” the woman said in tones of ice. “If not for me, he’d be in some prison for the criminally insane by now.”

  “Well, what’s all this Men in Black stuff? God, talk about karmic backlash!” A moth beat its wings against the back porch’s light-casing.

  “Mr. Justine merely suffered a traumatic experience. Coupled with a need for adjustment in his medication, the experience in Takoma Park affected him adversely. You should have had him sent to me immediately. As it is, credit his intelligence and instinct for survival that put him on the jet to Iowa so quickly.”

  “You haven’t answered my question. This Men in Black stuff—you’re saying he picked it up from the Klinghoffer crazy who shot him up with a hypo-ful of water?”

  “It follows, doesn’t it? You did read the clean-up report on Klinghoffer, didn’t you?”

  “I’m a busy man.”

  “The guy was obsessed with saucer lore. I mean, you should have spotted it from the assassination attempt on Scarborough! Dressed in black...”

  “I don’t credit any of that stuff.” The gossamer insect against the lamp fluttered down onto the concrete. Richards stepped on it, smearing the moth like a chalk mark.

  Dr. Cunningham looked away. “And the guy apparently drove an old model Pontiac. A black Pontiac. Woodrow Justine was injected with more than water. He was injected with very

  strong suggestions. These are potent archetypes we’re dealing with. Acid occasionally spills on the chemist’s toes, Mr. Richards.”

  Richards shook his head and leaned against the building, taking out a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to Dr. Cunningham who looked at him as though he were holding a handful of shit. “That’s right, you don’t smoke. I don’t much anymore myself. Just once in a while.” He shrugged and lit up, blowing the smoke away from his associate. “Well, I’m the executive branch of this operation, Cunningham. I do my job and I do it well ... I’m pretty well-versed in the UFO facts by now, natch—” He chuckled ruefully. “Too much for my personal taste. But I pretty much ignore the apocryphal nonsense.”

  “You shouldn’t. It’s all part of the fabric. The Men in Black phenomenon is a little-known but significant side effect of the UFO mythos.” Like a pedagogue speaking to a recalcitrant student, she spoke tersely. “Sometimes, witnesses of Unidentified Flying Objects are visited very soon after by men dressed in black who claim to be from the CIA or FBI or some other government agency; they warn the individual to be quiet about what they witnessed, and often threaten them. These men are notoriously weird and awkward, often they have dark skin and Asiatic features—men who don’t seem much familiar with the American language—or sometimes speak it too precisely, as if it were a second language. These figures merely harass—they do not actually carry out their threats of violence. All of which causes the theorists to assume that they are mere wraiths of the imagination. “

  “Men in Black. Like Satan or demons or something ... only modern.”

  “Excellent, Mr. Richards. Which is exactly my mythic point. The collective unconscious may ride around in jets and sports cars, but it still has its dark phantoms. They are just clothed in trench coats.” She smiled at him without humor. “Curious how they’re often CIA agents, eh?”

  “I do my job, and I do it well, Ms. Cunningham. Just like you. And we both reap the rewards. I’m in no mood for the casting of aspersions. And though I can’t speak for you, I serve a cause I believe in, my country!” He looked at her defiantly and blew smoke in her face.

  She coughed. “You needn’t parade your patriotism. I wave the same flag. Let’s get back to the matter at hand. Justine. He’s clearly somehow been affected by these stories—on some subconscious level. But I have spoken to him, and adjusted his drugs. He is back in control now, I can assure you. I stake my reputation on it.”

  Richards grunted. “Good. I’ll remember that.” He looked around at the grounds and the barns. “We might need this place in the future again—we’ve got to contain Scarborough’s investigation. But without hurting the bastard, and without giving anything away. A tricky business.”

  “This has been a delicate operation from the very beginning.”

  “Yes, but we’ve made some mistakes. It’s that MacKenzie guy—we didn’t realize that he’d kept the originals of his reports on Blue Book. That’s how they got this address.”

  “Well, count your blessings. They didn’t catch us flagrante delicto.”

  “Yes, but what other addresses are in that man’s files? Scarborough’s files were dealt with years ago. Now we’ve got to take out MacKenzie, before the two of them turn up the other bases.”

  “It’s dumb luck they found this one. Besides, that’s one of the reasons we took it out of service temporarily. Questionable security background.”

  “I don’t know, Julia. Scarborough isn’t dumb. He’s stubborn and he seemed to adore the blinders we’ve had on him all these years. But I think they’re starting to chafe. If I had my way, we’d just terminate the jerk. But of course, the Publishers—”

  “The Publishers know what they’re doing, Mr. Richards. We are but lowly Editors, taking joy in the creativity expressed in our careers.” She smiled for the first time. “And of course, we get paid more than your average editor.”

  The other agents were walking toward them from the barn. “You two will stay here,” Richards ordered. “Relief will be arriving tomorrow, and the body will be dealt with then.”

  “Yes, sir,” they said.

  “Oh, and get rid of all that whiskey—without drinking it yourselves. “

  They smiled. “Yes, sir. I think we’ve learned our lesson here, sir,” said one.

  They went into the farmhouse, and Richards and Cunningham turned and began walking back to the waiting copter.

  “I can’t take out Scarborough, but it’s open season on the people around him, if necessary. That’s why we need Justine. He’s going to be my man in this.”

  “Count on him, Mr. Richards.”

  “Good. When we get back, we’ll call the Pentagon.” He ducked under the slowly turning blades, even though they were far above his head. “We’re going to need MacKenzie’s address, Or rather, Woodrow Justine will need it.”

  Chapter 23

  At eight-thirty in the morning, there was a knock on the door. Scarborough heard it first since the guest room was nearest the front door. He’d gone to bed early, and Mac had stayed up writing; he figured the man deserved his rest, so he hoisted himself out of bed and went to answer the knock.

  “Yes?” he said, yawning as he tugged open the oak door by its brass handle.

  “Captain MacKenzie?”

  There was a woman standing outside the front door, dressed in sharp Air Force blues. She wore her hair up in a bun under a cap. Thick black-rimmed eyeglasses magnified her eyes slightly.

  “Um—no, he’s asleep. I’m Dr. Everett Scarborough.”

  “Excellent. I’m Lieutenant Marsha Manning. You’re the man to whom I’ve been assigned.” She stuck out a slim, matter-of-fact hand. “Good morning, Doctor. I look forward to working with you.”

  Baffled, Scarborough shook the woman’s hand reflexively. “I don’t recall asking for help from the Air Force.”

  “You didn’t. Colonel Dolan requisitioned my services. May I come in?”

  “Oh—of course, Lieutenant. Please excuse the state of this place, to say nothing of the state of me.” Scarborough wrapped the tatty bathrobe tighter around his nightclothes.

  The comers of the woman’s severe mouth tugged upwards, but she suppressed the smile immediately. She surveyed the living room. “Bachelor-base central, eh, Dr. Scarborough? Don’t worry, I’ve dealt with bachelors before.”


  “A woman of the world. How about some coffee, Lieutenant? Then we’ll call Colonel Dolan and get to the bottom of this business.”

  The woman nodded and accepted a seat at the dining-room table while Scarborough rustled up some coffee.

  “In the meantime, let me supply you with my background, Doctor,” she said in an officious monotone. “With an ROTC scholarship, I attended Duke University, obtaining a B.S. in engineering, and an M.S. in computer science. I am thirty years old, and have field experience in jet crash investigations in Japan, Alabama, California and West Germany. Otherwise, my days in the Air Force have been occupied with training programs for technicians and pilots on various bases in the continental U.S. Recently I was stationed at Vandenberg in California, but I’ve just been transferred to Ohio, with an administrative position in pilot education in the works.”

  “Impressive,” muttered Scarborough, trying to figure out Mac’s Mr. Coffee machine. Since his wife’s death, he’d devolved to instant coffee in the morning, a habit his taste buds loathed, but one which he found quite efficient schedule-wise. “I take it you’re here to help Captain MacKenzie and myself with our investigation. That’s very thoughtful of the colonel—but I’m afraid we really don’t need help.”

  She made a noise like squelched laughter. Scarborough poured water into the top of the drip-machine, and then turned, frowning.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing, Doctor. I’m sorry.” Again, she was a statue.

  Scarborough regarded her. She sat stiffly, green eyes straight ahead as though in a form of attention. Her legs were slim and well formed. She filled her uniform out in the right places. She was a handsome woman. She wore no makeup, but Scarborough realized that with some eyeliner, some mascara, and those vibrant green eyes, she’d be a very striking woman. And the

  murmurings of amusement beneath the military ice-show were most intriguing.

  “I take it, Lieutenant, that Colonel Dolan dispatched you personally, along with a few negative comments on our investigation abilities?”

  “Well, Doctor. He mentioned that you might need some—help.”

  “And you think it’s all pretty amusing. I bet you think all this is a lark. A UFO investigation with a couple of kooks.”

  “Well, sir, Project Blue Book is rather a joke around the barracks, so to speak, sir.” She turned and looked at him with great sincerity. “But I’m a dedicated investigator, Doctor. I intend to do my duty.”

  The glint of those eyes. An Irish green field, encapsulated. Scarborough was startled by their beauty, and he turned away, mumbling. “Well, the colonel’s gesture is appreciated, but I don’t think you’ll be staying, Lieutenant.”

  He looked back at her and could read neither disappointment nor gratification in her expression. Statue time again.

  He poured the coffee and got on the horn to Dolan; it was well into the morning, eastern standard time.

  “That’s right, Ev. If you’re going to open up Air Force business, I want an Air Force official there. Take her as a helper, take her as an overseer. Take her anyway you damn well please, but you’re going to take her, like it or not.”

  For a moment, Scarborough was tempted to demand an explanation for the whole government-owned farm business. But he must have been slightly touched by Mac’s paranoia, because he didn’t. He still didn’t buy the whole conspiracy bullshit that Camden mouthed. They’d argued long and hard about that last night, and Scarborough wouldn’t budge. He didn’t care for the secrecy involved, and he’d never liked the CIA much—but, so far there was nothing malevolent in what they’d found. Could be the farm had simply been a secret station for the Department of Agriculture or the EPA. Maybe it wasn’t even secret—the time elapsed just made it look that way. Anyway, there was still some more digging to do before any alarms were pulled.

  All the same, he didn’t tell Dolan where they’d been yesterday.

  “Walter, you talk to me as though I’m one of your military flunkies! I’m an independent citizen, not some lowly corporal who shines your shoes!”

  Dolan softened his tone. “Sorry, Ev. You just kinda pissed me off the other day. You’re right, of course. But you can’t just take matters into your own hands like this, on potentially classified subjects. Look, you’re reopening an official government investigation, and I’m going to give you an official okay on that—if, and only if, you’re accompanied by an Air Force officer. Namely, Lieutenant Manning.”

  “Are you threatening to arrest me or something, Walter?” asked Scarborough defiantly.

  A deep sigh issued from the receiver. “Okay, look at it this way. Just think of the access you’ll have to things——I guarantee you, the lieutenant can cough up facts and dates and what-the-hell-have-you with her portable computer, and her modem, and her priority access faster than you can shake a stick. Can’t you see, pal? I’m trying to help you—not hinder you. This is my way of saying, goddamn, you’re right, boy. Go ahead and stick your nose back into old Blue Book. ‘Fact, here’s some help!” Significant pause. “Between you and me, Ev—I’m not supposed to be doing this. This is Walter Dolan’s way of saying, ‘Sorry, I’ve been a real asshole.’ “

  “Priority computer-access, you say,” said Scarborough. “I don’t see any computer here.”

  “20 mega hard-disk Hewlett-Packard, 2400 baud modem,” said Manning, putting her coffee cup down. “Back at the motel. Not far. I can go back and get it, if you like.”

  Scarborough turned back to his phone conversation. No, it would look very bad if he turned this aid down. Besides, the lieutenant might actually be able to help some, and damn if he was going to get sucked into the conspiracy-paranoia about the whole thing. “We’ll see how it goes, Walter,” he said.

  “Wonderful. You have any problem, you let me know, but I tell you buddy, Lieutenant Manning comes highly recommended for just the kind of work you insist on doing. Now, just let me know if there’s any other way I can help you.”

  Scarborough hung up and fixed himself some coffee. The first few sips cleared his head some, and he felt better—especially now, in the clear light of morning, with that crazed sleazoid reporter Camden gone. After they’d gotten back, Jake headed for the bathroom, and came back wired and coke-eyed, insisting on hitting the road again. Important business, yes, yes. He’d be back in touch. Soon. Sniff, sniff.

  “Looks like you’re on the team.” Scarborough shook her hand, and, for the first time, realized that she was wearing a slight trace of perfume. Cinnabar. One of his favorites.

  He sat down across from her and quickly outlined the situation. He told her about the visit to the Higsdon farm yesterday, but did not mention the discovery of government ownership. He did, however, give her the address when she requested it. She said she’d do some research on the missing farmer and the land, utilizing her computer access. Scarborough was intrigued at her willingness to delve into government computer-files—but he honestly wondered about their value in this situation.

  About a half hour later, Mac wandered down, looking bleary-eyed, wearing only his BVDs. “Smelled coffee,” he murmured, scratching his big, hairy belly.

  “Uh, Mac—” said Scarborough, grimacing.

  Mac stopped, gave Lieutenant Manning a low glance, belched, and went to get his coffee.

  “You know, Mac, I realize that this is your house, but could you exercise some decorum? We have a lady visitor.”

  Mac poured the black stuff into a mug. “That ain’t no lady, that’s an Air Force officer.” He slogged his way to the table and sat down. “Howdy do, Lieutenant.”

  “You must be Captain MacKenzie,” she said coolly.

  “Tis my duty every day of the week to be me, aye.” He tilted the coffee and swallowed. Immediately, he grimaced. “Christ almighty! What is this mud?”

  “I must have fixed it wrong, Mac. Sorry.”

  Mac shrugged. “Oh well, the caffeine’s still there.” He gave Manning a closer look. “You’re not an MP. We�
�re not getting arrested.”

  Lieutenant Manning blinked. “Why ever should you get arrested?”

  “Mac is paranoid. Thinks there’s a government-Air Force-CIA conspiracy to stop us from looking into this UFO business.”

  “Captain MacKenzie, do you believe that earth is being visited by little green men in flying saucers?” The derisive chuckle was back in her voice.

  “Lieutenant,” said Mac, putting his coffee cup down onto the table with finality. “I’ve been on this planet fifty-five years now, and each of those years just gets weirder and weirder. I’m hoping that when I get to be about ninety-four, I’m gonna die of weirdness.”

  “Sounds like wishful thinking to me, Captain,” said Manning. “I prefer to stick to facts. Facts, logic, science—they’ve never steered me wrong.”

  “Hey, Ev. Your long-lost identical twin—minus about twenty years and a sex-change!” Mac rumbled with amusement.

  Scarborough studied the cool woman in the Air Force outfit. No, she wasn’t like him at all—there was something that rang hollow in that last sentence. Something off-key in the whole Ice Queen facade. It both intrigued and annoyed him.

  “Well, Lieutenant,” he said, “I’ll change, and we’ll go over and get that computer and modem of yours. I hope you have your access codes ready, because we’re going to use them.”

  “No, Dr. Scarborough. I’m going to use them,” she said with an almost haughty demeanor. “My eyes only, I’m afraid.”

  The words and her attitude rankled, but he let it go. It might be worthwhile putting up with her. Old Ironbottom might have given them just the tool they needed to get to the truth in this whole business.

  He got up to leave, but paused at the door.

  “Have you ever seen Guns of Navarone, Lieutenant Manning?”

  She blinked, astonished at the non-sequitur. “No. Is it about UFOs?”

  Mac laughed heartily. “Don’t worry, Ev. I’ll keep my M-16 square on her back when we storm the Germans!”