The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy

by David Bischoff

  As soon as Jake Camden was gone, Maximillian Schroeder was on the phone.

  “Gregg? Yes, it’s Schroeder. Gregg, I presume you saw the rather seedy-looking fellow hanging around on the set today and going into my trailer. Yes, that’s right. He came in a Ford Escort. Gregg, he just left, and I want you to follow him. Report back to me where he goes, what he does, and whom he talks to. Understood? Fine, then you’d better be off because he’s probably almost to his car now.”

  Schroeder cradled the phone, smiled, and went to get himself another scotch.

  Chapter 25

  They were back in the conference room.

  They had ordered their coffee and now they were drinking it. Edward Myers drank his with cream. Richards drank his black.

  Dr. Julia Cunningham stuck with her mineral water.

  She sat straight in her chair, listening and participating in the conversation with an alert detachment. Actually, she would have preferred to have been back in her lab, working. That was her universe, not this administrative stuff. That was Richards’s department. From time to time, she might be called upon to make pertinent contributions, which was why she listened. Otherwise, her mental facilities ranged back to her work, running over a particularly thorny recent neurological puzzle, like fingers clicking on an abacus.

  “The Publishers,” said Myers. “Go ahead, Richards. I’m listening. Now that I’m working for them, albeit against my will, I guess I should have a slight understanding of that organization.”

  “No, you don’t understand, Ed.” Richards sipped his coffee thoughtfully, looking out at the beautiful golds and browns on the ragged New Mexico plain beyond the electrified security fence. “We’re telling you this because I sincerely believe that once you understand that this is a philanthropic organization I belong to, a humanitarian effort, you will be a happier camper.”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “The Publishers. Now, where shall I start?” Richards tented his fingers, pursed his lips contemplatively and then began. “Well, since we shall have to be very general for security purposes, very vague ... we shall say that the Publishers began well back in the nineteenth century, at the crest of the wave of industrialization, when progress took the power of the British Empire around the world—and huge fortunes began to be accumulated by the enterprising capitalists of this great nation.”

  “They began in America then?”

  “Yes, that’s right. But they had influential contacts around the world. I have reason to believe that there are traces of Masonry involved, but this is by no means a religious sort of thing. Essentially, many of these rich and powerful men began to perceive the need for a supra-political organization to watch after not merely America’s welfare—but more specifically, its national identity, its cultural integrity.”

  “You’re talking about people like John D. Rockefeller ... Andrew Carnegie ... that lot.”

  “Please, Ed. I can’t mention names.”

  Myers grunted and got a knowing look to his face. Cunningham knew that he’d already started to draw conclusions, not that it made any difference.

  “Cultural integrity ... Ed, I’m repeating that word because it’s important. And I’m not necessarily talking about culture, a la concerts and art galleries and literature and such, although they are part of the mosaic. I’m talking about language, customs, national identity ...”

  “Race?”

  “Precisely.”

  “We’re talking about a bunch of Nazis here?”

  “Oh, no, no. You’re taking this the wrong direction, Ed. Quite the opposite. The Publishers are not purists. They are well aware of the contributions of all races to the wonderful melting pot that is America. Presently, practically all races that comprise American life are represented by members of the Publishers. You must remember that capitalism is the cornerstone here. Just as in America there are rich blacks and Latins, Orientals and Irish Catholics, so too, are they members of the Publishers.”

  “It’s some kind of supra-government, then.”

  “Not government, Ed. Watchdogs. Guardians. And arbiters of national direction.”

  “With an enforcement division.”

  “Wedded with the nation’s executive branch and therefore quite legal within the tenets of a visionary constitution.”

  “In other words, you’re stretching the definitions of government limitations into a different dimension entirely.”

  “Over two hundred years have passed since the forefathers drafted that brilliant document. Some of their descendants are members of the Publishers, as a matter of fact ... However, time has changed the world. It used to take a year to travel around the globe. Now the shuttle circumnavigates it in a couple of hours. I need not tell you that it is a weary and troubled world that we occupy. Forces of progress hurtle on at tremendous rates, far too quickly for our feeble selves to truly keep up with. Quite simply, the Publishers exist to preserve America. They continue the dream. Just as our defense system guards the borders of our land, so the Publishers guard the borders of our national consciousness, unconsciousness--and, if you’d care to borrow a Jungian term, the American collective unconscious.”

  “You mean, like advertising and public relations and religion, only on an almost cosmic level.”

  “There’s nothing ‘almost’ about it.” Richards smiled, looking terrifically pleased with himself.

  “Whew. This truly takes the notion of conspiracies to that level as well.”

  “The Publishers and Editors do not consider themselves a conspiracy. We do not act for private gain. We ultimately act for the welfare and continued future of our great nation.”

  “Wait a minute ... You must make a bundle. And you’re bribing me!”

  Richards raised an eyebrow. “Membership requires great personal and emotional risk. There should be some paltry reimbursement. ‘ ,

  “Okay, okay. I’ve got it. You’re the flack gods of America. But what does this outrageous business of kidnapping people and then using mind-control methods to make them think they’ve been abused by aliens have to do with preserving national integrity?!”

  “I would have hoped you would understand. You read what I gave you, true? You realize that the U.S. government and military have been covering up the truth about UFOs almost from the very beginning?”

  “Sure, sure. You know, I’d bought the company line on that, too. I thought that back in the forties and fifties we were just worried about the Russians pulling some double whammy on us. We were real jumpy about national security. And then, as usual, we just didn’t want to admit that, so we brushed it under the rug and put a stone wall around it. I didn’t realize that we were so freaked about people thinking that we’d lied to them that we’d try to divert their attention with a bizarre program like this. What is it? Make the UFO-nauts so freaked about abductions that they’re so busy watching the skies and interviewing and hypnotizing people, that they forget the U.S. government’s part in it from way back when?”

  Richards turned to Cunningham who regarded them both with statue-like placidity. “I’m afraid I didn’t include the big picture in the folder concerning Project Black Book,” he sighed. “Now that Mr. Myers has proven his worth and value—and loyalty to us, I might add—I feel that perhaps it’s time to give him the bottom line.”

  “What, the truth?”

  “All you’ve heard today is absolutely true,” said Brian Richards, his face grave, and looking much older for it.

  “We’ve just left out perhaps the most important part-it least of this section of—uhm—Editorial Operations.”

  “All right. I’m a big boy. Please let me know why I’m betraying my friend,” said Myers, the bite of sarcasm still plain in his voice, but his face showing honest curiosity.

  Richards nodded to Dr. Julia Cunningham. She smiled, relishing his sense of the dramatic, and turned to the CIA operative.

  “It’s really quite simple, Mr. Myers. You see-the United States of America really does have e
xtraterrestrial visitors.”

  Chapter 26

  Everett Scarborough was helping Walter Mashkin carry some pipes to his truck when the white Chevrolet Lumina cruised up to the curb and Lieutenant Marsha Manning got out of the driver’s side.

  They’d had some good talks since he’d come, Scarborough and Mashkin, talks covering the breadth and length of the UFO phenomena. Sometimes the conversation had veered toward argument, but it was more debate than anything heated or ugly, which was what most of Scarborough’s discussions with UFO aficionados had turned to over the years. Mostly, though, he’d slept, resting and relaxing and getting ready for what came next: his meeting with Ed Myers. But he’d come to respect and admire Mashkin, and this afternoon the man had to go out for a plumbing job. Naturally, it was best for Scarborough to just stay here, out of sight; but there was no reason he couldn’t help the guy load pipe into his pickup truck, a voluntary action which Mashkin seemed to appreciate as much symbolically as practically.

  “Hello, Marsha!” called Scarborough, after carefully setting the pipe down in the pile on the bed of the truck. “Glad you could stop by!”

  “A trip to sunshine and warmth! I couldn’t resist it.”

  “Walter, this is the young lady of whom I speak so often and well. I present, Lieutenant Marsha Manning of the United States Air Force, usually accompanied by a drum roll and dripping with medals of honor, but today travelling in mufti!”

  Marsha snorted. “You’re in fine fettle today, Everett! Hello, Mr. Mashkin.”

  “Please, Walter. Or Wait ...”

  “But never Wally. Walter’s been taking good care of me, Marsha. I’m feeling sort of human again.”

  Mashkin winked. “I just been feedin’ him some beer and some food and fertilizing his roots a bit with some jawin’-but come on in, Marsha. You come a long way, and maybe you could do with a nice long-neck bottle of beer yourself.”

  Marsha smiled, clearly charmed with Walter Mashkin. “Why thank you, Walter. But I thought the plane was landing in New Mexico, not the Smoky Mountains.”

  A grin split Walter’s face. “Well, let’s just say that I brung a bit of Tennessee to the Southwest, Marsha. And holdin’ onto my accent like a miser holds onto his money! Now ain’t you got a suitcase? I’ll bring it in while you go in with your pal here and do some catchin’ up!”

  Marsha gave him the keys and pointed him toward the trunk with thanks, and then allowed herself to be ushered into the cool stucco house. For his own part, Scarborough was startled not only at how glad he was to see Marsha Manning, but at the effect she had on him emotionally and physically as she walked with him, the familiar scent of her Opium perfume and her shampoo dancing under his nose. Marsha wore good green culottes that accentuated her .large, rounded hips, and a crisp white blouse that fairly bloomed with her large, high breasts. What’s more, she seemed to have lost a few pounds since he’d last seen her—and she was wearing a little more makeup than usual, her long curly hair brushed out to kiss the light rose-colored linen jacket. The warmth in her eyes could not be mistaken—she was glad to see him, too, and clearly very happy that he was in decidedly better spirits than when last they met.

  “You look very nice, Marsha,” he said, getting the beer Mashkin had promised her from the refrigerator.

  “Thanks. And you, sir, look like a plumber. An excellent disguise.” She accepted the beer and sat down at the kitchen table.

  Scarborough looked down at his apparel. Red-checked flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up. Worn Levi’s jeans. Torn Keds sneakers. “What, you don’t like my Air Jordans here?”

  “I’m sure they’ll put you in good stead at the Publishers’ basketball match that decides our fate.”

  Scarborough grinned. “I am pretty good at dunking the ball.” And at dribbling too, he thought, admiring her long legs as she stretched them out. Whoa, fella, he told himself. It’s nice to know that the juices aren’t all dried up, but there are lots more serious things than the visual delights of heterosexuality.

  “Speaking of balls ...” she said, pausing for a sip, letting the last word hang in the air. “I hope we haven’t dropped ours here. It was hell getting to come out here, but I hope it’s in time.”

  Scarborough sat down beside her and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Things are going well. I’m almost positive I know where they’re keeping Diane and Tim.”

  “Well, I had to come out here anyway to follow up on this business I dug up at Wright-Patterson ... And I figure I might be able to help you as well, since we’re taking about Air Force property here.”

  It was time for a frown. “Marsha, you’ve done so much for me. And I’m really glad you’re here. But I just don’t want to jeopardize your career ... Christ, your very freedom ... For me. I just can’t ask for that.”

  “Well, I’m giving it, whether you like it or not—if I can.” Her features hardened into determination. “What’s the story on your CIA contact?”

  “I’m to call his house tonight. His son David has been given the name of the place where I’m supposed to meet him tomorrow.” Scarborough heaved a sigh. “Marsha, this is going to work. I know it. I’m going to get in for Diane tomorrow.” He looked at her seriously. .. Yes ... Air Force. Kirtland ... Maybe you can help me.”

  “That’s what I’m here for.”

  “No, in a way that you won’t have to risk your life or anything else, for that matter.”

  He was interrupted by Mashkin coming through the front door and hauling two bags into the kitchen entrance and then letting them down with a gasp. “Whew. You women don’t travel light, do you?”

  “Gee, Walter. I can carry those bags just fine!”

  “Big girl like you, I’m not surprised. Feels like these things are loaded with lead pipe!”

  “Bullet-proof underwear!” she joked.

  “Reckon I’ll just set these down awhile and set my butt down, too. Teatime, right? I’ll just get myself some tea.” Mashkin got himself a beer, flipped off the top with the opener, leaned against the counter, and toasted his guests. “My, don’t you two make a handsome couple!”

  “If you consider Mutt and Jeff handsome!” said Marsha, laughing.

  “So I hope I didn’t interrupt nothing real intimate here.”

  “No, no, of course not, Walt. We were just discussing the plans for tomorrow. My meeting with Ed Myers ...”

  “And how I can help him at Kirtland.”

  “Yes, I thought that if I find Diane—and maybe even Tim—at that complex, and can get her into the lawful, legitimate part of the Air Force—well, then Marsha can make sure that she is protected.”

  “Well fuck me, good buddy, but won’t that put your dick in the pencil sharpener? Pardon my vernacular, ma’am. “

  “It’s Diane and Tim I’m worried about. I’m confident that if I get caught by the proper authorities, I can prove my innocence. But there is simply no way I can turn myself in and also find out what happened to Diane.”

  “I see. Well, I guess that makes some sense. So that’s why Marsha’s here, huh?”

  “It’s not the only reason,” Marsha said.

  Scarborough sighed and rolled his eyes. “Look, let’s not start up on this, okay? I’m here to rescue my daughter and to try to get to the bottom of this operation, not to chase after little green men!”

  Mashkin’s eyes sparkled. “Well, Marsha. You got my little pointy ears up! Would you care to fill in with some more information?”

  “I see that you’ve got an open mind, Walter, unlike certain stubborn jerks who will not be named in present company.” Her eyes smoldered toward Scarborough.

  “Look, I’m not saying that there might not be something to what you found in that storage hangar, Marsha. I’m just saying that it’s low priority now ... It really has nothing to do with getting Diane out, or finding out what’s going on at that complex.”

  “You don’t know that for sure, Everett. It could have a lot to do with what’s going on. It’
s part of the whole cover-up, after all!”

  “Please, please folks. You’re killing me with suspense.”

  Scarborough shook his head and threw up his hands in surrender. “Lieutenant Manning here thinks she’s found the Roswell crashed saucer of 1947 at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base.”

  Walter Mashkin’s eyes grew wide and round. “No shit!”

  “Well, it was all very top secret on the computers ... so I had to go take a look.”

  “How the hell did you get in?”

  Marsha Manning told the affable man the whole story. By the time she was finished, Mashkin had finished his beer, but had been too entranced to get another out of the icebox.

  “Wow!” he said when Marsha was finished. “That’s terrific! I been foolin’ with this UFO business for twenty-five years, and all I got to show for it is a nice collection, some good friends and a sighting. You’ve stumbled upon actual proof that the saucers not only really exist, but that there’s a cover-up.”

  “We know there’s a cover-up!” said Scarborough impatiently. “What we don’t know is why, and I’m just not ready to start accepting that there are actual flying saucers from Xenon involved.”

  Marsha looked at him with a sadness in her eyes. “I really wish you’d believe me, Everett. This hurts.”

  “Marsha, I do believe you. I just don’t want to swallow whole the conclusions that you’ve jumped to!”

  “Stalemate, then,” Marsha said.

  “Not really.” Mashkin’s face had a strange expression to it. “Ev, buddy. We got ourselves a free evening, right? I mean, after you call up the Ed Myers fellow’s kid.”

  Scarborough shrugged. “Yes. I suppose so. Why?”

  “Well, what would you say to a little drive in my pickup truck?”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Hmmm. Might be a bit crowded in old Miss Gertie—that’s my pickup. Do you suppose, Marsha, we could use that nice new rental car? I’d pay for the extra mileage.”