The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy

by David Bischoff

  “I am unhappy to say, Ed, that Mr. Ludlum is not in our employ as a very excellent disinformant to the popular culture. His delicious and wild enclaves of powerful people are nothing compared to the truth-however, we haven’t discouraged his sales. Fictional camouflage.”

  “Wheels within wheels. But I still don’t understand. Just who are these Publishers?”

  “Their identities, of course, we cannot tell you. However, we can tell you a little bit more about why they exist and their highly important role in the history of the United States-and all mankind, for that matter. But perhaps we could talk about all this over a cup of coffee. This late in the day, I myself could use a bit of a pick-me-up. And Dr. Cunningham here-well, she’s always in the mood for a pick-me-up, aren’t you Doctor?”

  Cunningham glowered and stalked away.

  “Come on, Ed. We’ll order some fresh-brewed French Roast in the conference room. And I’ll tell you a little story, hmmm?”

  Richards ushered the frowning CIA operative out the door.

  The walls glittered behind them like a fabulous treasure cave from a story from the Arabian Nights.

  And then the lights went off.

  Chapter 24

  With a rush of air, the seam in the bottom of the landed flying saucer cracked open, revealing the outlines of a door in the shiny alloy of the ship’s side. The door opened outward, slowly changing into a ramp. A mist backlit by swirls of aquamarine and crimson washed down onto the desert ground, folding over the feet of the man, the woman, and the child looking up at this vision, transfixed with wonder.

  The ramp clumped against the ground.

  Within the fog, something moved.

  Something began to walk down the ramp.

  “Daddy, Daddy!” cried the little girl, pointing, eyes alight with curiosity and yet fear as well. “Look!”

  A voice bellowed from behind them, “Cut! Okay, that’s a wrap for the morning! Break for lunch!”

  As the director waded through the colored dry-ice fog to talk to the actors for a moment, and the gaffers, best boys, boom operators, and cameramen secured their equipment in order to take some time off to get something to eat, Jake Camden tapped the shoulder of the man who sat in his director’s chair, watching the activity around him impassively. “Okay if we talk now, Max?”

  Maximillian Schroeder turned and regarded Camden for a long moment before showing recognition. “Ah yes, Jake. I’m sorry to keep you waiting so long, but this is a crucial scene and I wanted to make sure that all the details are correct.”

  Jake Camden nodded, looking around him at the movie set just outside of Santa Fe. The “flying saucer” was, of course, only a partial construction. Walk a few paces to the left, and you’d see all the special-effects people operating the lights and the mist and what-have-you. The ground and surrounding rocks were real enough, though: this was a location shoot, and the surrounding scene fairly bristled with high-tech equipment of the moviemaking kind. Yes sir, thought Camden. This was no low-budget grade-B film. This was top-drawer stuff. Schroeder’s first film had been a box-office bonanza, and his film company had the bucks to make its sequel look really good.

  “Well, I must say this is a far cry from the movie that I consulted on. They shot just about the whole thing in a warehouse in Pasadena. Exteriors in Griffith Park.”

  “Hooray for Hollywood, eh, Jake?” said Schroeder, smiling for the first time all day. “Even with script, director, and overall final approval, I still have to be here to make sure they don’t make any costly mistakes or changes. I must admit, though, I didn’t expect you to trundle in unannounced bright and early this morning in the middle of New Mexico!”

  “I really have to talk to you. Privately.”

  “Obviously.” Schroeder touched the blue and green rayon of Camden’s Hawaiian shirt, today featuring sailboats supporting bikini-clad woman. Camden had not had a chance to wash clothes for quite a while, and the shirt looked quite rumpled. “You’re looking a little tatty, Jake. Everything okay?”

  Camden eyed the surrounding film crew, most of who were heading off to a number of tables beneath tarpaulins to pick up sandwiches, Cokes, and coffee. “No, Max,” he said sotto voce from the side of his mouth. “That’s why I’ve been dying out here, trying to keep a low profile waiting for you.”

  “Ah. Well, then perhaps we should take lunch in my personal trailer, hmmm?” Schroeder smiled and pointed to an area past a rock grouping. For his own part, Maximillian Schroeder dressed in what might be considered desert sartorial splendor. He wore khaki shorts, a khaki shirt with epaulets, and a bright white hat atop his well-groomed head. He smelled of expensive Calvin Klein cologne. He looked tan and healthy, not at all like a person who claimed to have spent a good deal of time on the examination table of bug-eyed aliens.

  Camden smiled and relaxed. “I was hoping you’d have one of those. The film I worked on, my personal trailer was a Johnny-on-the-Spot!”

  Schroeder shrugged and gestured for Camden to follow.

  Maximillian Schroeder’s trailer was actually only a third of a long trailer, but it was rigged with all the amenities. Wet bar, refrigerator, comfortable chairs, private bathroom, and cellular phone. It had air-conditioning too, which wasn’t really necessary, since it wasn’t all that hot outside and dry heat at that—but Camden just plain enjoyed the whir and cool of ACs, so it put him further at ease. After he’d used the can and accepted the long Tom Collins that Schroeder fixed for him, he settled on a pillowed couch and let out a long “Ahhh!” of relief.

  “So, what trouble are you in this time, Jake?” asked Schroeder, not one to mince words.

  “Florida State Police, I think. Definitely the FBI. I’m no longer working for the National Intruder. I’m running out of money. And did I mention the CIA? Yeah, I think they want me, too—either them, or one of their illegal branches.”

  The ice tinkled as he took a cool sip. The citrus was nice, but the alcohol was nicer.

  “My goodness, Jake. You’ve truly outdone yourself. And all of this because of your involvement with Everett Scarborough?”

  “Well, part of the problem—the police and FBI and money part—has a lot to do with drugs, so you could say a large part of it I put upon myself.”

  “But this illegal CIA branch ... That’s something you intimated before. Perhaps you’d care to elucidate.”

  “Look, Max. First, I gotta know if you’re behind me. I gotta know that I can count on you to help me out. You say you’re interested in film rights, but I haven’t seen a thin dime yet. You helped me out with the agent-he’s got lots of nibbles on the story, and I’m pretty sure that all this is going to turn into not only a gold mine but the success story of the decade. Right now, though, I’m broke and I’m in trouble ... and I need help. So, can I count on you?”

  Schroeder got up and walked to a desk on the other side of the room. Sitting there was a Gucci leather briefcase. He opened it and pulled out a packet of legal-sized paper, stapled in the upper left-hand corner. “I heard you’d called, Jake, but I didn’t think the situation was that pressing. I assumed that you’d call here. I didn’t think it would be in person, although I’m not unhappy to see you. I wish you the best with the articles and book—alas, I can’t help you with those more than I already have. However, if you’d just sign these, I believe that the movie deal will be taken care of.”

  He handed Camden the papers. Jake glanced them over, and grinned. “This is an option contract. Twenty thousand dollars renewable in a year ... a hundred thousand if you buy ... points ... Not bad, Max, but I’m sure you can do better.”

  “I just so happen to have two thousand dollars cash on me right now, which will be the first part of the advance. Of course, I’d be willing to negotiate with your ... our agent. But I thought you needed money quickly, Jake.”

  “Where do I sign?”

  “Usual place. At the end.” Schroeder drew out a gold ballpoint pen from the briefcase and handed it to Jake, who immedia
tely used it to sign his name three times. When he looked up from his signature, Schroeder was opening his billfold and withdrawing a number of hundred-dollar bills, which he counted out on the coffee table. Jake counted them again and then happily pocketed them.

  “Thanks, Max! You won’t be sorry.”

  “I hope I won’t.”

  “Well, this helps me out a lot, cash-wise. But I’m not going to be able to write my article or my book unless you help me out the rest of the way. Looks like you’ve just made an investment in Jake Camden, buddy, and thanks.” Jake grabbed Schroeder’s hand and pumped it. “Now you’re going to have to protect that investment.”

  Schroeder parted their grip with a look of mild distaste. “Jake, you really don’t have to play salesman with me. I’m well aware of my present responsibilities.” He went and poured himself a glass of Perrier with lime. “The question is, are you?”

  “Huh? I don’t follow.”

  “If you had taken the time to read that contract fully, you would realize that we have formed a partnership of sorts in regards to this operation. You seem to also forget, Jake, of my own interest in the UFO conspiracies and such. I need to be kept up to date on these things—I hunger for information. Like, for instance, where is Everett Scarborough now and what is he doing?”

  “Shit, I can’t tell you everything! I mean, I know I can trust you, Max, but all the same—it might slip to someone else, and then where will Scarborough and I be?”

  “Then you know where Scarborough is?”

  Camden took a long drink from the tall glass, pondering. Why was Schroeder so damned nosy about where Scarborough was? This was rather disturbing.

  Of course, he knew that Scarborough was visiting Walter Mashkin not far away, in Albuquerque. He’d remained in contact with Marsha Manning, getting information from her as well as giving it. Also, Marsha was planning to come down to Albuquerque. Something about helping Scarborough out, as well as investigating that hoary old business of the crashed saucer in Roswell. Sheesh, and hadn’t he milked that one dry over the years! Ha! Schroeder didn’t know anything about Manning, and that’s the way it was going to stay. But Scarborough was a different matter. Scarborough was the subject of this business, this book, this movie. What harm would it do to give some information to Maximillian Schroeder, a man who was almost as much an anathema to the government for finger pointing on the subject of conspiracies as anybody? And he’d also certainly be interested in hearing about the strange things that had been happening in regards to the strange guardians who’d been tailing them and protecting them...

  “It is, after all, the next part of the plot,” Schroeder prodded.

  “True. And maybe you can help us.”

  “I’ll do anything and everything I can, Jake. You know that. Now that we’re partners, I guess I’m obliged to.”

  “Well, I can’t give you specifics. Not that I don’t trust you, Max.”

  “That’s all right. I understand. You have an important person to protect. Generalizations will do quite well ...”

  “Okay. He’s in New Mexico. We’ve got reason to believe that the base of operations for this CIA branch is quite near Kirtland Air Force Base.”

  “You don’t say.” Maximillian Schroeder wore a veiled look.

  “But operations you say, Jake. What are you talking about? To cover up the contacts that the Others are making with human beings?”

  “Look, Max, I know this may come as a shock to you-but Scarborough and I ... we’ve got reason to believe that a good part of this alien-abduction thing ... Well, it might be a government conspiracy. For some reason, the CIA is kidnapping people and making them believe they’ve been on alien spacecraft. Don’t ask me why but—”

  A sudden realization occurred to Camden that stopped him in mid-speech. Jesus! He hadn’t thought this thing all the way through—oh, no! If these bozos were manufacturing fake abductions, then Max Schroeder could have been one of their victims! Which meant that maybe he was being watched as well.

  “Go on, Jake.”

  “Uhm ... well ... maybe I should just go, Max. I mean, I don’t want to get you too involved! It could be very dangerous.”

  “Jake, you’re not telling me something that I haven’t heard before.” Schroeder stared at him, dead-earnest. “The Others—they’ve told me about this occurrence. They are very upset. I have not mentioned this in any of my books. It is too confusing at present.” A troubled, almost haunted, look seemed to invade Schroeder’s eyes. He turned away for a moment, stiffening, his face undergoing a remarkable transformation. For a fleeting moment, he was no longer the suave and collected Yuppie minister of the New Age religion of the Others, but a person in fear and doubt and pain. A paroxysm of angst washed over that face—and then, just as suddenly, he gained control again. “Forgive me, Jake. I—when the memories of my contact with the Others hit me full, as they just did, I am not myself.”

  Jake Camden’s mind was going a thousand miles per hour. “Hey, maybe you’d better have something a little stronger than fancy French soda water, huh?” Geez, there were tears in the guy’s eyes!

  “I don’t usually indulge, but in this case ...”

  “Here, you just sit here and I’ll get you something. What, some sherry, something watered down?”

  “I believe there’s a bottle of Glenlivet Scotch in the cabinet.”

  Jake found it. “Water? Ice?”

  “Neat.”

  “Wow. I’ll drink to that!” Camden poured two healthy tots of the amber liquid into tumblers. This really had the guy shook up, Camden thought. What’s more, it really seemed genuine. Jake had always considered Schroeder a bit of a loony, but now that reality was getting a bit out of kilter, he thought that maybe old Schroeder here was on the up-and-up about these suspicions of CIA-disinformation abductions.

  “Here you go.” Jake handed the man his drink, and Schroeder took a gulp.

  “Thanks.”

  “Help?”

  “A little.”

  “Okay. This is real interesting, Max. About the Others knowing about the CIA abductions. I mean, the thing is ... And pardon me for doubting, but did it occur to you that maybe you were the victim of some kind of brain control?”

  Schroeder shivered. He took another drink. Shivered again. “Yes, Jake. Don’t you think this whole thing hasn’t haunted me from the beginning? Incredible paranoid permutations of the situation have run through my mind from the beginning. Many, I’ve included in my books. But I’ve not included the CIA participation the Others told me about—for fear of my life.”

  “What have you done about it?”

  “Well, I’ve talked with the Others, and they agreed I should attempt some kind of discreet inquiry. As you probably know, Jake, I come from not only a wealthy family, but a well-connected one. I know many people in high places. I inquired. I found absolutely nothing to indicate this kind of CIA activity. However, I have cultivated relationships with certain members of that organization whose honor and integrity are above reproach. I am positive that they could not possibly have anything to do with such a heinous flouting of individual rights.”

  “What, you don’t think the Others flout your rights by dragging you on their spaceship?”

  “They are not bound by the laws of this nation. They do not truly understand human emotions. This is the hellish part of the contact ... Most are not even concerned that the CIA have mimicked their procedures—in all cases, distorting the experience so that the spirituality and the emotional transformation involved are entirely turned into a totally negative experience. There is much that is heavenly about the relationship between the Others and their human contactees, Jake. But the experience that this group is creating is absolutely hellish. It negates everything that I have worked for in my books and my movies! Naturally, I want to end this atrocity. But how?”

  “You say that you have contacts in the CIA?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You know anything about the
activities out there on the edge of Kirtland ... that lab or whatever it is?”

  “No. I wasn’t even aware that it existed.”

  “Do you think that you can call your contacts and find out? Maybe arrange for us to visit or something?”

  “Well ... if it’s a classified area, that’s pretty hard to do.”

  Camden stared him in the’ eye. “Come on, man! We’re working for the Others, here! These CIA people are besmirching the good works, the cosmic efforts toward the evolutionary development of mankind! We’re talking the future of the human race. This might prevent nuclear war or something good like that. “

  Schroeder nodded. “Maybe you’re right, Jake. I’ll make the calls tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow may too late. You’ve gotta do it now. Look, it’s twelve-thirty here, which makes it late afternoon in Washington. Make the calls.”

  Maximillian Schroeder leaned his face into his cupped hands as though they were an oxygen mask, took a deep breath, and then slapped them down onto his knees. “All right, Jake. I’ll do just that!”

  “Good for you.” Jake made a congratulatory salute with his drink and then downed it. He was feeling better already, much better.

  “Yes—but, er, Jake ... maybe you’d better leave me alone to make the arrangements.” Schroeder walked to the desk, scribbled something on a piece of paper, and handed the note to Jake. “This is my personal phone number. Even if I’m on the set, I’ll get word and I’ll come over here and take the call. Maybe you’re right, Jake. Maybe we’ll be able to see just what is going on in the Kirtland facility. Yes. The more I think about it, the better I feel.”

  Camden pocketed the paper. “Great. I’ll call you first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Where will you be staying?”

  “Don’t know yet. Probably a hotel in town.”

  “Fine. You can give me that information tomorrow.”

  They exchanged meaningfully sincere looks, shook hands, and Camden was off, the money feeling solid and good and his pocket, the future looking much, much rosier.