The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy

by David Bischoff

  “Hey, I’m not finished my breakfast!”

  “I’ll buy you the lunch of your life, Walt. Now come on.”

  They left the shaded, fat-and-wax scent for the bright New Mexican parking lot. Scarborough put on his hat and his own sunglasses. Mashkin just squinted obstinately.

  “That’s your pick up over there?” said Myers.

  “One of a fleet.”

  “Fine. That’s my Lincoln there. You know you guys, I had a hell of a time manufacturing a classified sewage problem, but I have to admit, this is a good cover.”

  “You’ll be taking us out to the compound where Diane is, then.”

  “That’s right. And you’ll have clearance badges. The works. Like I promised. Only then, I’m afraid you’re going to be on your own, because if I get caught helping you, Ev, you can well imagine what’s going to happen to me.”

  Scarborough clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You don’t know how much this means to me, Ed. This is the end of a long, painful journey. I just wish we had time to talk more.”

  “You work this out, Ev, and we’ll have lots of time to talk. And I’ll be buying the beers.”

  “Oh, I’ll work it out. Like I say, I’ll have no problem proving my case. But I want to get Diane out of there first. I don’t trust your bosses, I’m afraid.”

  Myers grunted. “Strange business. Well, now, here’s the plan, then.”

  They followed Myers’s Lincoln in Mashkin’s pickup to the main gates of Kirtland Air Force Base. There were other gates, closer to the far end of the large base-to which they were headed, but those put more scrutiny on clearance badges and such. No, Myers had assured them. The main gate would be the best, and then they could use the base roads to get back to the CIA compound where Diane was being held.

  Ed Myers had given them clearance badges and credentials. The previous day, Mashkin had worked up employment papers for Scarborough, who was operating under the name Ted Phillips. The few miles to the wide gates of Kirtland were a fast and easy trip. The Lincoln stopped at one of the stations between the lanes, in front of a striped guard-device. Myers got out of the car, showed his credentials to a uniformed man, and then gestured back to the pickup truck. The uniformed man—a corporal, Scarborough could see by his insignia—nodded and motioned for Myers to drive his car through. He went back into the station and hit the switch for the lever to open for him. Myers drove through, and then idled, waiting for the pickup to be passed.

  “This is it, good buddy,” said Mashkin, his Tennessee twang much more obvious now with his nervousness. “Here we go. Yeah, Lord, though I enter the Valley of the Central Intelligence Agency, I shalt fear no evil.”

  Mashkin drove up and stopped by the corporal.

  The Air Force man was one of those young men whose shorn hair, five years in the service, and starched uniform made older looking. He looked hard as nails at first, and for a terrifying moment, Scarborough thought that surely such a professional man would recognize him instantly.

  However, the corporal didn’t even look at him.

  “Passes and prepared documents please,” he said, hard as nails.

  “Shore thang,” said Mashkin, handing the stuff over.

  He had a square face, and a sprinkling of acne scars, this young man, and his eyes flowed over the documents with careful and high-trained scrutiny. He lingered on them for an excruciatingly long time. Scarborough felt his heart beginning to crowd into his throat.

  Finally, the corporal handed the papers back. “Looks in order. Must be a serious problem to bring in outsiders.”

  Mashkin grinned. “Yep. That’s what I told Mr. Suit and Tie up there. That’s why we brought in the best goddamn pipe man in New Mexico.” He jerked a thumb toward Scarborough. “If this guy can’t get the mail movin’, nobody can!”

  “Well, that’s good to know. I hate to think about officers’ latrines being backed up!”

  As the corporal motioned them onward, Scarborough heaved a sigh of relief.

  “I tell you, friend,” said Mashkin. “Ain’t officers’ shit I was worried about back there.”

  “Tell me about it!” Scarborough shivered, eyes held steady on the spread of dull-looking buildings ahead. In the distance came the scream of a jet approaching the air strips. “I thought we were the ones who were going to get flushed!”

  Mashkin exploded into donkey-honks of laughter. He slapped Scarborough on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit! I didn’t figure you could hang around Walter K. Mashkin without gettin’ some Tennessee humor mixed up in your blood.”

  “What, outhouse humor?”

  “Scarborough! Is there any other kind?”

  Scarborough managed a faint chuckle before the leaden seriousness clamped down on him again.

  The Lincoln made a left-hand tum onto a main thoroughfare just before the first clump of official-looking buildings, and speeded up. Mashkin had to stomp on the accelerator to keep up. “Hell! What does that asshole think I’m packing beneath my hood, a V-8 fuel-injected? Kee—rist!” His hands felt their way to the glove box, opened it, and pulled out a bar of Red Man Chewing Tobacco, of which he proceeded to rake a health chaw. “How many miles away he say this place is?”

  “About twenty, I think.”

  “You think the government’s got enough land out here in the West? Tarnation! It’s like they’re an occupying force or somethin’!”

  “The whole government.”

  “Huh?”

  “I said, that that’s the way the government’s getting to be—the more I get know about what’s been going on, Walter, the more I respect the intentions of our Founding Fathers.”

  “Shee-it. Tom Jefferson and Ben Franklin would take one look at Washington these days and have immediate heart attacks. You really can’t compare the times, fella.”

  “Oh yes you can. And we have the Constitution and the Bill of Rights to uphold those principles. Just remember, they’re the law, Walter. The military and the cops? Just hired whores with unconvicted criminals as their bosses.”

  “Yikes. You getting cynical on me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Scarb, good buddy. You can’t be that way. You got too much going for you!” Mashkin let go a healthy spit out the window.

  “I let them pull the wool over my eyes for over twenty years. For two decades I was a pawn—a victim of my own enormous ego. Well, I’ve changed. And if I get out of this thing alive, the world is going to know about what I’ve been through!”

  “Oh, yeah, right—that’s A-OK, fella. You just do that, and make sure that Walter K. Mashkin gets himself a footnote or two. But that’s not what I’m talkin’ about! I’m talkin’ about your attitude. I mean, basically, I could have told you about this years ago. Your attitude really sucks, pardon my French. And you may have changed your mind about some things, but it sounds to me as though your attitude still sucks!”

  “My God, Mashkin. Would you care to give me some kind of small break? My whole world has been torn apart; my daughter is the prisoner of unregenerate fanatics—”

  “Oh sure, and I’m supposed to feel sorry for you, huh? Well hey, I had a kid once, too. A little boy. Yeah, and I had a wife, too. An automobile accident took them away, and my world kinda deflated for a while, too.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize ...”

  “That’s okay. I never talk about it. What’s the sense? What I wanna say to you now, buddy, is that I kept the faith. I didn’t give into cynicism, hard feelings. You see, that’s one of the reasons I’m such a UFO nut. I guess it’s my way of looking up at the stars and touching ‘em. You know—find out the mysteries of the universe, of God, or whatever God is supposed to be. And hell, maybe myself in the bargain. So yeah, maybe you’re right in your books. Maybe this whole credulity thing has gotten out of hand ... turning into a religion ... whatever...

  “But Scarb ... Don’t you think that maybe there’s somethin’ in human beings that yearns for somethin’ more that makes us th
at way. Don’t you ever just sit by a nice blue lake and look up at the big night sky and just kind of shiver and say, ‘Wow! Life is really somethin’. And I sure as hell would like to be closer to what it really is.’

  “Well now, I guess maybe that everybody’s got their ways of finding that out ... Their ... meditations. Yeah. That’s the word I’m gropin’ for! Their meditations! Thinking and reading and finding out about UFOs and wondering about what kinda beings could be behind the wheels there ... Hey, maybe that’s my form of meditation, my way of saying, Shucks, universe, or shucks, God, or shucks, whatever ... I’m crazy about you, and I just want.to know all about you!”

  “A commendable attitude, I suppose,” said Scarborough, a trace of the old tartness back in his voice. “But if you want religion, why don’t you just join some church?”

  “I ain’t no churchgoer. I had a bellyful of Baptist bullshit up to age sixteen, and I just can’t take it no more. That don’t mean I don’t believe in God. Shit, I even pray to him once in a while. Kinda comfortable, just conversing with the Almighty. No, I’m a loner, Scarborough. I guess maybe you can understand that. I need to do things my way—I don’t like getting my rough edges scraped off by no cookie-cutter of dogma and convention. But that don’t mean I’m no cynic, Scarb. An’ I’m just sayin’ that maybe you’d better watch yerself. ‘Cos cynics—man, the real ones—they ain’t good, they ain’t bad, they ain’t nothin’. Their hearts may be pumpin’, but they’re as good as dead inside.”

  “Okay, Walt. I’ll think about that. I don’t feel very dead inside. I’m feeling rather alive. Maybe it’s not cynicism, maybe it’s just hurt.”

  Mashkin winked at him. “You bet. That’s the spirit. And those bastards—they did hurt you plenty. But I’ll tell you, bud, we’re gonna get that little girl of yours outta there today, and then we’re gonna find out all about that crashed saucer in Roswell. And maybe, just maybe, I’m gonna be able to meet up with an ET!” Pure enthusiasm beamed from the broad grin that ignited upon Mashkin’s face.

  “Let’s just concentrate upon the first part, okay?”

  The countryside sparsed down from buildings to long, stretches of arid land. Off in the distance, Scarborough could see Air Force fighters and carriers swooping in for landings, or taking off in muted blasts of sound; but the road they travelled skirted the runways by a considerable margin.

  The drive was another fifteen miles. Scarborough prepared himself inside for what awaited him. Below the seat, of course, they had some of Mashkin’s weapon collection: a shotgun and several automatics. He hadn’t told Myers about these; but Mashkin had insisted upon them, and Scarborough had to agree, having them around would not be a bad idea. Anyway, very seldom were there serious searches made of vehicles at the main gates of Air Force bases in New Mexico, especially not if a guy with the clout of Edward Myers got them in. Scarborough just hoped that they didn’t have to use the weapons. The theory was that they’d work on the plumbing, then sneak off, find Diane, maybe check out what was going on at the compound. Then, they would hide Diane under a cloth in the back and vamoose on back to the Officers’ Club, hopefully without pursuit. Once there, Walter Mashkin could just drop them off and get off base under his own power and papers. Marsha would take care of the rest then, and they’d be in safe waters.

  Scarborough was leaving it up to Myers to extricate himself from any problems his activities might create. Myers had served in the CIA for close to a quarter-century. If anyone could get themselves off the devil’s pitchfork, it was Ed Myers. Probably had his course of action all planned, yes indeed. An amazing guy, Ed. Scarborough was just happy that he had a good an insider in the system—and as faithful a friend.

  They passed through even scrubbier territory, filled with sagebrush and the occasional tumbleweed. The wind that fluted through the window was full of the by-now-familiar New Mexico tang. The taste of that awful McDonald’s coffee still clung to Scarborough’s mouth stubbornly.

  “You don’t have any chewing gum, do you, Walt?”

  “Got some Juicy Fruit in the glove box there. Help yerself!”

  Scarborough clicked the box open, and was almost deluged by the cram of stuff packed inside. How Mashkin had gotten his tobacco out without dumping it all on the floor he’d no idea; right now, he had all he could do to prevent that event. There were maps, old car registration cards, scissors, tools, receipts, and what-all-else here, and it took a little rooting to find the pack of gum that Mashkin had promised. He did find it though, and it proved to be a fresh megapack. Scarborough pushed the rest of the stuff back into the dashboard cabinet and unwrapped two sticks of gum. The sweet taste made him feel immediately better; they even seemed to settle his sour stomach somewhat.

  “Yep. You can’t go wrong with Juicy Fruit,” said Mashkin. “That’s my favorite. Backslid into Doublemint for a while, but that Juicy Fruit is my once and future gum!”

  “When you’re not chewing tobacco.”

  “Shit. Just when I’m nervous. This stuff tears hell out of your mouth, you do it too much!”

  “A notice from the surgeon general!”

  “You makin’ fun of me, boy!”

  “Impossible, Walt. You’re already a barrel of laughs.”

  “Well, I’d advise you keep a tight hold of your trousers, ‘cause the yuks are just gonna keep on a comin’.” He pointed up ahead and Scarborough looked.

  It was the Complex.

  Just as Myers had said, it was in the middle of nowhere, looking somewhat like an afterthought tacked onto the military base. Indeed it was like a microcosm of .the base, the same tired architecture, the same bad paint jobs, the same humps of hangars and blocks of buildings.

  Only this little CIA enclave had its own private fence, its own private gate, and its own private guards.

  “No problem,” said Mashkin, pulling his papers back out from the sun visor. “We made it through one; we’ll make it through this.”

  “Yes,” said Scarborough. “Of course we will.” Had Myers told him about this gate? He must have. He just couldn’t recall it offhand.

  It really was a perfect place for a semisecret CIA installation. A middle-of-nowhere spot on a high-tech-defended Air Force Base in the middle of nowhere. And even though they were miles away from the main base, these buildings blended in with the others of Kirtland. No way would anyone want to investigate them. It would be tough to even find out about them, and even if they did, how could one get through a double set of gates with the Air Force protection? Yes, a good place to set up shop if you’re going to do hideous things to victims of kidnapping, perform awful experiments; a good place for doctors to break the Hippocratic Oath on innocent victims in the name of national security.

  Myers’s car stopped at the gate. A uniformed guard stepped out to check his identification. Myers waved for Mashkin to stop his pickup truck and Mashkin did. Myers walked back to them, still smiling but looking a little tense, nonetheless.

  “I was afraid this might happen, but it’s really no problem,” he said as he leaned casually into the driver’s window.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, nothing. Nothing. Routine check, that’s all. They want you to get out and come up to the booth with the papers I gave you. I’ll handle the whole situation. No problem at all.”

  Mashkin shrugged and got out. “Hell, why not? This is the American military we’re dealing with.”

  Scarborough was a little less sanguine. Myers hadn’t mentioned the possibility of this kind of activity at a checkpoint. Still, Scarborough had worked for the Air Force quite a few years and he knew their security could be a little quirky. The kicker, of course, was that this was really a branch of the CIA here, and their security could be tough. Still, Myers wasn’t a stupid man; he would have prepared for just such an eventuality.

  They walked to the guard station, a booth with windows, much like the ones at the main gate, except that it was longer and deeper with some sort of room with no windows behind i
t.

  “Good morning, gentlemen, “ said the corporal, a near clone of the one back at the main gate, right down to the shiny buttons of his blue uniform and the razor bums on his neck. “Could I see your documents? We don’t usually call on outside plumbers around here.”

  “Well, sure enough!” said Mashkin, grinning and handing forward his papers.

  Scarborough did the same.

  Just as their hands were extending outwards, a group of three men in coats and ties and sunglasses stepped out. Two held automatic weapons. Scarborough did not recognize them, but he did recognize the third.

  It was Brian Richards.

  “Hello, Scarborough,” said Richards. “Would you and your friend please put your hands on top of your heads and come along with us?”

  Scarborough’s heart lurched. He felt as though he was about to vomit, but he rapidly regained control. He swiveled toward Myers, working his mouth, unable to get anything out but gasps.

  Myers was looking away, his head bowed. “I’m sorry, Ev. I truly am!”

  “What the shit!” said Mashkin? “I’m an American citizen.

  You can’t do this to me!” Nonetheless, the man put his hands on his head.

  “We’re officers of the Executive Branch of the United States Government.” Richards flashed a badge at Mashkin, his face deadpan as Jack Webb’s in “Dragnet.” “You are hereby under arrest for aiding and abetting a wanted criminal.” He turned to Myers. “Who is this bozo, anyway?”

  “The plumber. I told you. Walter Mashkin, the plumber.”

  “Oh yes. The plumber UFO-freak, that’s right. I have a file on you, Mashkin. I just didn’t peruse it fully.” He gestured toward the buildings. “All right, Scarborough. I want you to start walking toward that nearest building, where you’ll be detained until we can interrogate you.”

  “Hey, don’t we get Mirandized? Don’t we get to call our lawyers? What the fuck is going on?”

  “Mr. Mashkin,” said Richards harshly. “You’ve just stepped into a very deep pile of crap. And if you ever want to get out of it, I strongly suggest you cooperate.”