The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy

by David Bischoff

  She pulled the covering up higher.

  She had to walk along the length of the thing to uncover it sufficiently to have a proper examination. When she was finished, she backed up and directed the light of her flashlight, panning it to illuminate the object section by section.

  When she was finished, she turned the light off.

  She started pulling the tarp back on, lest someone realize that she’d been in here. Halfway finished, she realized that her hands were shaking. She had to stop for a minute, to get her bearings.

  Dear God, she thought, wanting to get this over with, wanting to get the hell out of here. Dear God in heaven!

  From somewhere in the cavernous hangar echoed the nocturnal scamperings of a rat.

  Chapter 18

  “Hello?”

  “Ed?”

  “Hey, Ev. Great. Right on time. How’s it going out there in the cold?”

  “I’m still alive.”

  “You sound good, Ev. You sound real good.”

  “And you sound like you’ve got something for me.”

  “Not a whole lot, but it’s something for you to work on, I guess. But you’re sure you don’t want to meet somewhere? No, maybe you’re right ... maybe that’s not such a good idea for right now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Part and parcel of what I’ve got for you, Mr. Scarborough. I’ll start with the bad news. Unfortunately, I have absolutely no indication that the CIA, or any agency remotely connected with the CIA, from the Contras to the Afghan Freedom Fighters, have kidnapped your daughter or anyone else associated with you.”

  “Okay. What else?”

  “What else ... right. This Editors and Publishers business. Nothing official here, Ev, but I’ve done a little digging with other friends a couple of bumps up from me, and apparently Editors and Publishers is some sort of loose jargon involving the super-grades’ relationship to big moneymen.”

  “Moneymen? I don’t get you?”

  “Oh, you know—the people who are really supposed to be running this country. The billionaires, the old boy networks. There’s a real tie between old money and the CIA, pal—look at Georgie Bush! I think that’s what those terms refer to.”

  “What’s that got to do with the government UFO cover-up?”

  “Say, I’ve only had a day, and I had some debriefing to do from my trip. Give me a break.”

  “Sorry, Ed. What else did you come up with?”

  “This is where I hit some pay dirt. I did a little research on your Doctor Julia Cunningham. She indeed works for us. Neuro-chemical control research. Real science-fiction stuff. If she’d worked for the Company back in the late fifties, early sixties, she’d have been the one passing out the hits of acid. Get my drift?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  “I still don’t see the UFO connection, but she’s definitely a consultant.”

  “You mean she’s not full-time?”

  “No. Apparently she’s got some other kind of research and experimental interests with some universities, some connections with the NIH and the NIMH.”

  “Yes. That’s where I met her. The National Institute of Health. Hurry up, Ed. I don’t want to stay on much longer. I know this is a clean line, but allow me my paranoia.”

  “I understand. According to records, Dr. Cunningham is on assignment now at a government research base in New Mexico. Actually, it’s on Kirtland Air Force Base. Heavy-duty psycho-control research rep, dating back from the forties. And the CIA has been using it ever since Truman whacked our little fanny.”

  “Thanks, Ed. Can you be at the phone this time tomorrow night?”

  “You bet. You know, that offer of man-to-man help still stands. I got some nice leave time coming up.”

  “Thanks, Ed. I may have to take you up on it. Bye.”

  Scarborough hung the pay-phone up. He picked the change out of the box and started feeding the thing again, along with more quarters from the stack he’d gotten at the bank in Fredrick, Maryland, today.

  Scarborough was in a bar in Uniontown, Pennsylvania, now. He’d just had a light draft beer and steak and a baked potato. He’d been trying to call Marsha Manning since he got here, but the ring on the other end had vibrated into nothingness.

  He figured he’d try again.

  He dialed out her number.

  Scarborough didn’t just need to talk to her; he needed to hear her voice. Today had been pretty rough.

  Who were the men following him?

  All day long he fancied he saw them from the corners of his eyes. But when he turned—either it was someone else...

  Or worse, no one else at all. A flutter of cloth. A post. A sign.

  Who were they?

  He’d read that note they’d crammed into his hand a hundred times.

  Not time yet ... Not time...

  Not time for what?

  His mind spun off into a hundred tangents, a hundred possibilities. Were they government officers, working to expose this cover-up themselves? Were they independent? Were they reporters, working a big story? Were they military? Were they foreign agents? Were they members of the Publishers themselves, playing out some complex and twisted game?

  Whoever they were, they were following him. They were toying with his life. They considered him some kind of pawn in this game of theirs, and Scarborough didn’t like it.

  Not one bit.

  Finally, he just had to give up thinking about it, and give his fevered brain a rest.

  What he wanted now wasn’t just answers. He wanted a moment’s peace, a short time of sanctuary. The only place he felt safe right now, was in Ohio. With Marsha Manning. He had a peculiar affection for Marsha. He’d developed some kind of odd dependency he hadn’t felt with a woman since ... Well, since his wife was alive. Normally, he’d have run away from that feeling, but now he was running to it.

  Times had changed.

  So that was where he was headed ... Marsha Manning’s house, in Ohio.

  And then...

  And then he had an idea of where he would go next.

  On the sixth ring, the phone was picked up.

  “Hello?”

  “Marsha. It’s me.”

  She was out of breath. Scarborough could hear her taking gulps of air. Finally: “You must have heard my telepathic beckonings.”

  He gave her the number of the booth he was at. He was running out of quarters.

  In a few moments, she called back.

  He said, “Look, I’m on my way. It’s been kind of crazy.”

  “So I’ve heard. Camden filled me in. You okay?”

  “No, but I’m still in one piece. I ... I need to recover a bit. I thought I’d rest awhile at your place.”

  “I’d love to have you. But I don’t think it’s a good idea, Everett. I really don’t.”

  Scarborough felt a momentary pang of rejection—and then he realized that Manning was mostly interested in his well-being.

  “What happened? You see agents watching your house?”

  “No, but I can’t be sure any more. This is big, Everett. A lot bigger than I thought it could ever be and I think that we must be very, very cautious. I’ve used my computer know-how to check this phone for taps, and it’s clean. But after tonight ... Well, let’s just say, although I did my best to cover my tracks, they might come looking for me, too. And if they find you here as well ... The game is up.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Did you know, Doctor, that Wright-Patterson has a UFO rep?”

  He had to think about that for a second. . ‘Oh. Sure, the crashed saucer. From Roswell, New Mexico. UFO-ology 101. Nonsense. I looked into it myself. Hearsay. Just like a lot of the UFO mythology.”

  “Think again, buddy.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been reading up on the subject and that little bit of information hit me square between the eyes. So, here I am, right on Wright, so to speak ... I checked the classified inventory with my computer p
rowess. The files said there was something in a hangar marked Roswell, New Mexico. So I finagled clearance for my ID and I went and had a look-see.”

  “You’re not going to tell me you found a flying saucer, are you, Marsha?” His teeth were gritted, but he tried to maintain a jokey, light attitude toward this, the attitude that had put him in such good stead all those years as a lecturer and a guest on TV shows.

  “Not exactly. Let’s just say I found something in that hangar that was made of stuff I’ve never seen before, that looked like a flying saucer that had made sudden impact with the ground— and had writing on it. Symbols I’ve never seen before in my life. Very alien-looking symbols.”

  Scarborough felt the by-now-familiar shifting of reality ... the tearing of its very fabric.

  “Everett? Everett, are you there?”

  “Yes. Yes, Marsha, I’m here. Look, let’s just set this aside for a while ...”

  “What do you mean, set it aside. This is important! The Air Force-the CIA ... The whole government ... They’ve been hiding this! The earth really is being visited by beings from other planets, Everett! Do you still refuse to accept that?”

  “I don’t know, Marsha. I didn’t see what you saw. I can’t make a judgment yet. That’s not what I meant though, so don’t get upset.”

  “It’s difficult not to, with your stubborn refusal to face facts.”

  “Okay, let me give you a few facts that I’ve come up with, and you can make your own judgments from there.”

  “All right, Everett. You just really tick me off sometimes.”

  Scarborough had to smile to himself. “I guess the feeling’s mutual there, Marsha.”

  He told her about the men following him, about his run-in with them last night ... He told her about contacting his friend Ed Myers, and the information the CIA operative had been able to dig up. But more important, he told her his thoughts and conclusions about the covert and frightening operation he suspected the so-called Editors and Publishers to be involved with.

  “But why would human beings want to do that kind of thing?” asked Marsha, after a short silence between them.

  “It all makes a kind of twisted pattern. The CIA has been interested in mind control for years. As a weapon, as a tool. Oh, after the investigations, they said they stopped it-but you’d better believe under Reagan and Bush, the Company would be given the freedom to start up things again, full throttle. That farm in Iowa pretty much indicates they’d been doing this kind of thing since the beginning.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “Disinformation, Marsha, as well as mind-control research.”

  “You mean, all these alien-abduction stories Strieber, Schroeder ... the ones reported in those Hopkins books You’re telling me that the CIA is responsible?”

  “Or some outlaw branch of the CIA that maybe even the bulk of the Company doesn’t know about.”

  “But why? What information are they covering up ... Wait a minute ... I’m starting to see ... Goodness ... Everett, do you think that they’re concealing actual alien activity?”

  “I don’t have enough information to come to that conclusion. But that is a possibility. A possibility made more real by your work, Marsha. I’m sorry about my reaction. I guess it’s from my many years of skepticism.”

  “Then you think that there are aliens on earth, Everett?”

  “No. I still don’t believe that at all. The facts aren’t all in, Marsha, and besides-I’m much more concerned about my daughter, and the operation that kidnapped her. I shudder to think what they’re doing to her. And to Tim ...”

  “Well, I guess that’s about as far as I’m going to get with you for now. But I’m not going to let this business drop.”

  “Good for you. There may be a connection. As for me, I guess I should head on to my next stop.”

  “And where’s that?”

  “I have reason to believe I know one of the people involved in the abomination. A Doctor Julia Cunningham. Ed Myers tells me that she is indeed on the CIA payroll. And she’s in New Mexico, Marsha. At a place known for this kind of research. That’s where I’m headed. I’ve got a dreadful hunch that’s where they’re keeping Diane.”

  “New Mexico? Anywhere near Roswell?”

  “Look, I don’t have time to investigate crashed saucers ... but as a matter of fact, it’s on Kirtland Air Force Base.”

  “Well, call me tomorrow night, because I’m not through with this!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just call me tomorrow night, Everett. Okay?”

  “Look, Marsha, if you’re up to something, you really should let me know about it.”

  “Tomorrow night, Everett,” she said, a little coldly.

  And hung up.

  One more call, and then he was going to drive aways more and find a place to sleep.

  He went to the bar and got some more quarters, along with a Coke. It was just a roadside bar, with a deer’s head above the cash register and jars of pickled pig’s feet and pickled eggs on the counter. The steak had been tough but filling and the potato had been a huge Idaho.

  “You got some serious phone-calling to do, mister,” said the bartender, a sleepy-eyed, middle-aged man who looked as though he sampled his wares frequently.

  “That’s right.” Scarborough pushed out two quarters for the Coke, and four for a tip. “Anybody waiting to use it?”

  “Nope. Sorry if I sounded critical. I like to mind my own business. Just making a comment.”

  “That’s okay.”

  There were only about ten customers, but what with Dolly Parton and Buck Owens coming from the jukebox and the clicking balls and curses coming from the pool table, to say nothing of the clatter of dishes in the kitchen, Scarborough was able to get quite a bit of privacy back in the dark comer.

  He picked up toe Coke and sipped. Shaved ice. Good. Didn’t get too many bars that gave you shaved ice, and that was the way the Scarborough liked his Cokes, when he drank them. He carried his frosty glass back to the phone, set it down by the ripped phone books, put the quarters beside the phone, and made the call.

  He hit on the second ring.

  “’lo.”

  “Camden. Scarborough. Call me back at this number.”

  “Yikes. Hey, man, I’m just about to go out. Celebrate.”

  “Camden! We need to talk.”

  A momentary pause as the man, who sounded a little foggy, thought about the situation. “Okay. Gimme the number.”

  Camden called back. “Hey, Scarborough. Sorry. I was thinking my long distance phone company had locked me out. Guess they didn’t.”

  “Why didn’t you say that?”

  “Uhmm—I figured you’d have called back if you didn’t hear from me.”

  “You bet I would have. Camden, what are you celebrating?”

  “Great trip to New York. Picked up some interesting stories to keep my readers happy—until I get to split. anyway.”

  “Well, good for you. I’m glad you talked to Marsha and filled her in. Thanks.”

  “No problem. Where are you?”

  “Not important right now. I think I’m onto something, Jake.”

  Scarborough told the reporter much the same thing he’d told Manning. However, he didn’t tell him what Manning was up to—it somehow didn’t seem to dovetail sufficiently; and besides, he had to keep Camden’s mind on relevant business. You toss a UFO reporter any new stuff on crashed saucers in New Mexico or the Majestic 12, or any of the chief concerns or catchphrases of the saucer world, and they salivate like Pavlov’s dogs.

  “Geez. Sounds hot. Sounds like I should be there!”

  “Yes. I could use your help.”

  “Listen, though, I got some serious writing to do beforehand. I take it you’re going to wear some tread out to get there.”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, that gives me a few days, right?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Good. Where you going to be in
New Mexico?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Look, I’ll just be ready to fly out there. No problem. The Southwest is always a good place for saucer stories—mystical Carlos Castaneda stuff and all that. I go out there all the time, so nobody will say anything. I gotta get these stories done first, okay?”

  “All right. Thanks, Camden.”

  “Sorry to hear about that little run-in with the Hardy Boys in Baltimore. And I haven’t got a clue who they are, either. Nothing like it in saucer-lore. Men in Black generally just intimidate; they don’t clobber you over the head.”

  “I think we’re dealing with much more than just lore, here, Jake. We’ve got a serious government conspiracy that misuses and even harms United States citizens in the interest of God-knows-what perverted cause.”

  “Say, you know, I’ve been thinking about that, pal. You remember that guy, Harry Reynolds ... the shortwave guy who disappeared last month. Think maybe it was these Editors and Publishers that got the old ‘Klatuu of the Airwaves’?”

  The notion struck Scarborough like a thunderbolt.

  “Scarborough! Hey, chum, you there, or did the Grey Men get you?”

  “No, no, I’m here. I was just thinking. Harry Reynolds. Yes, I remember him.”

  “You better. A real UFO crackpot. One of the classics. I met him. Nice enough old guy. He had this prosthetic foot. Got the real one blown off way back in Korea. Used to wave it around sometimes at UFO conventions. What a hoot. ... Hey, you’re not taking me seriously, are you?”

  “Reynolds lived in Iowa, right?”

  “Yeah. Dubuque. So what?”

  “I’m just remembering, that’s all.”

  “What, you’re remembering reading about it? You don’t want to investigate it do you—Hell, old Harry probably just crossed over to Canada with some young nurse to start a new life.”

  “No, I don’t think I was all that aware of the disappearance until MacKenzie showed me a letter he’d gotten.”

  “Letter? What kind of letter.”

  “A letter suggesting a permanent alien abduction of Reynolds. A letter from a guy in New Mexico. Now what was his name? As I recall it sounded Russian. Mashkin! that’s it Mashkin! You know of a guy named Mashkin in New Mexico?”