The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy

by David Bischoff

  Had to call in Triple A and…

  What the hell…?

  His wool-gathering became totally unraveled.

  Jake was passing another turnout . . .

  And sitting there, skulking like a barracuda in a reef-hole was the red Cougar.

  He passed it, looking at it…

  And he caught the gazes of the two men in the driver’s and passenger’s seats.

  They were square-jawed, humorless-looking men, wearing grey shirts and frowns.

  They did not look as though they were vacationers driving up to Mount Lemmon to spend a few idle hours swilling beer in the cooler temperatures.

  Their gazes locked with Jake’s and in that split second, Jake Camden knew they did not wish him well.

  His response was immediate.

  He turned his attention back onto the road.

  He gunned the Z, zooming up to fifty miles an hour.

  There was a curve up ahead. Jake had to lower his speed down to forty-five miles per hour to take it, but as soon as his wheels ceased screeching, he put it up to fifty again.

  Those guys were tailing him…

  They wanted to follow him to Everett Scarborough’s hiding place!

  She was just reaching the base of the mountains when her radio signaled her attention.

  She grabbed the handheld thing and pulled it up to her mouth, clicking it on.

  “Yes,” said April Hardesty.

  To hell with all that “Roger” and “Over and out” business. She knew whom she was talking to. And so did they.

  “He knows he’s being followed.”

  “You’re positive?”

  “Yes. There’s no doubt. He’s panicked and he’s taking the road over the speed limit. We’ve pulled back on the road and are following him.”

  “Damn. You couldn’t have hidden?”

  “No place to hide behind. That turnout you ordered us into was damned bare.”

  “And you’re sure he knows. “

  “He stared us straight in the eyes and then accelerated.”

  He knew, all right.

  “Very well. If he can’t evade you then he most certainly won’t lead you to where we want to go. He’s no good to us now, and he’ll only muddle matters further. Gentlemen—I presume that there are a significant number of cliffs and precipices and such up there?”

  “Oh yeah, are you kidding me?”

  “Would it be at all possible to arrange for an extravagant and quite dramatic accident involving a certain vehicle and its driver hurtling ass over elbows over one of those aforementioned cliffs?”

  “No problem. Wally here’s a stock-car driver.”

  Assenting noises came from the driver.

  “Good then,” said April Hardesty. “And if I’m lucky, I’ll have a good view of it!”

  She sped up.

  If there had been any doubt in Jake Camden’s mind that he was being pursued, it disappeared the moment the big red Cougar hove into view in his rearview mirror.

  The thing had Arizona license plates. Plain, nothing official—apparently, if these were cops, they were plainclothes cops. Still and all, nary a sign of siren or flashing lights.

  Jake had a sinking feeling that these bozos were far worse than cops.

  He tried to speed up, but every time he got a good head of steam up, one of those sudden curves to the right or the left would crop up, and he’d have to slow down or risk screeching over the side of the goddamned mountain.

  What’s more, whatever speed he was able to pick up, whatever distance, the Cougar was able to deal with quite easily.

  It wasn’t fair.

  But then, life wasn’t fair, and Jake allowed the adrenaline to sweep away his cobwebs. He knew he couldn’t go back to the cabin now, but he was between a rock and a hard place: He couldn’t let these guys catch up with him, either.

  The cooling air swept through the window.

  Jake’s ears popped, allowing him to better hear the churning of his engine, and behind him, the roar of the Cougar’s V-8, keeping up with him. The brown of the landscape below, merging with the blue of the sky and the green of the forest-topped mountains held no beauty now, only fear.

  Suddenly, another car—a Ford van, barreled around a comer. It honked, and Jake swerved to avoid a collision. The blue van barreled past the Cougar, which also had to swerve to avoid it.

  Jake had to swallow to get his heart back to the right place. He could feel the sweat rising on his skin and the strange sensation of it immediately evaporating.

  The red of the Cougar hung in his rearview mirror like a curse.

  There was a long, straight stretch up ahead, so Jake pushed the gas pedal down again, accelerating.

  But of course the Cougar stayed right with him.

  Moreover, when he finally slowed down to take the next curve, the red Cougar didn’t.

  It plowed right into his back fender, banging the hell out of it and ripping a gasp from Jake.

  “Jesus!” he said. “Have a care!”

  He tromped on the pedal, forced into the next lane, maneuvering like crazy, tires screeching, to stay in control. God, he liked to drive fast, but he wasn’t any kind of racer! He didn’t know how to keep his car in check during this kind of craziness.

  Well, Jakey boy, he told himself. You’re going to have to learn quickly. Because that Cougar certainly wants you to wreck!

  He was half-tempted to just pull off into the next turnout and have it out with those guys. But then he remembered that most likely “those guys” were equipped with guns, and he wasn’t.

  So much for that notion.

  As though his thought triggered it, there commenced immediate explosions.

  A bullet whistled past his window.

  Those guys were firing at him!

  He looked in his rearview, saw one of the men leaning out the window, aiming.

  He swerved a bit and was rewarded with the sight of the bullet banging into the road, kicking up a spray of rock.

  Better the road than one of his tires. A blowout would either put him over the edge of a cliff or out of commission on the other side of the road, a stationary target for professional firepower.

  He felt himself slipping past fear and terror, into some unexplored territory of pure adrenalized reactions.

  Somehow, he was able to keep up his speed.

  For about two minutes he kept ahead of the Cougar.

  However, at the next tum, he was going so fast that he was forced to get out in the middle of the road.

  The Cougar put on a burst of speed, zooming up on the mountainside of him. When the Cougar reached half way up the length of the Z, the driver rammed the car into Jake’s.

  The Nissan Z was banged over all the way into the left-hand lane, its wheels slewing around without purchase.

  Desperately, Jake spun the wheel, hanging onto it for dear life. He felt as though he was out of control. His stomach felt weightless, and he could almost anticipate the free-floating descent of the car, roaring over the cliff.

  However, just when it felt as though he’d lost control, the steel-belted radials gripped the asphalt and his car, spurred on by Jake’s heavy foot on the gas, zoomed up ahead of the Cougar.

  He kept that foot tromped down hard on the gas, too, and got himself a good margin between him and the Cougar.

  There was a curve up ahead, though, and he had to slow down some to keep from simply sailing off into space, but he negotiated it and then kept the speed pouring on.

  C’mon, Jake, he told himself. C’mon!

  When he was finally able to spare a glance in the rearview mirror, though, he could see that although he’d gotten a lead on the Cougar, it wasn’t much.

  And the Cougar was roaring up a storm, and that gunman was getting out of the side window again and aiming.

  Jake flinched when he heard the gunshot, flinched again when another bullet creased the car’s roof noisily.

  “Jesus!” he said. “And I haven’t got insur
ance on this thing!”

  Of course, he didn’t have insurance on himself either; that had expired some months ago. Not even health insurance, since that had terminated with his employment at the Intruder; although life seemed far more appropriate at this moment, since a tumble down one of these cliffs in a fiery automobile was almost certainly a terminal proposition.

  A bullet smashed out the back window.

  Glass tinkled inwards onto the hatchback area and the back seat, a little sprinkling over his shoulders.

  “Okay, guys, now this is really getting ridiculous!” he whined.

  Up ahead was another curve. His only hope was that maybe he could take it so quickly and successfully that his pursuers would be forced to take it quickly as well—and go over the edge.

  Fat chance, but then, what else did he have on tap.

  Not goddamned much, short of slamming on the brakes and letting them rear-end him, hoping they weren’t wearing their seatbelts.

  Of course a Cougar was a lot more metal than a Z and the resultant smashup would be just as deadly for him.

  Still, it was a thought, if total desperation set in.

  “Yikes!” screamed Jake Camden as he whipped around the curve at a speed far above the safety limit. The rear end of the car slewed to the left and then to the right, pushing up clouds of dust, smoke, and gravel. Jake could smell his burning tires.

  The edge of the precipice grew alarmingly close. Jake jerked the wheel and let up on the gas. The car straightened up, its wheels sliding out onto the shoulder, slipping over grass and scratching along scrub bushes.

  The road opened up, and Jake pushed the gas pedal all the way down again, downshifting and rocketing ahead.

  He’d done it! Wow, what driving. Maybe he could be a racecar driver.

  No way that guy could take the curve that fast.

  Jake concentrated on taking as much advantage of the straightaway as possible.

  Only a minute later did he dare look into the rearview mirror. When he did, however, his heart sank.

  That red bastard was still hugging the road, gaining whatever ground it had lost on the curve like some nightmare on wheels.

  Damn! What was—?

  There was something coming from the other direction.

  The car was a large old-model Cadillac. Black, with large tail fins and a shiny chrome front like the mouth of some metallic monster. Like thunder it rolled past Jake, roaring with the wind, sailing past him on the left side.

  As it passed, Jake could not help but notice a funny thing about this Cadillac.

  It not only did not have any passengers—

  It had no driver.

  Absolutely no one was behind the wheel…

  … The car whooshed past him, and he couldn’t help but follow it in his mirror.

  Instead of passing the red Cougar, however, the driverless black Cadillac angled into the next lane, heading straight for it.

  The Cougar swerved to avoid it, but the Cadillac swerved as well, accelerating with remarkable quickness. The chrome front slammed into the side of the Cougar…

  Kee... rash!

  The sound was huge.

  Nor did the Cadillac stop there. It pushed the screeching, bashed-in Cougar all the way to the edge of the precipice—pushed it over...

  And followed it as the Cougar went over the edge, rolling down the slope.

  There was a tremendous explosion as one of the cars—both? —ignited.

  Jake could hear them tumbling down the hill noisily, and soon a billow of black smoke was ballooning up.

  A shudder of horror and revulsion—but also of relief—passed through Jake Camden as he turned back to address the road ahead of him.

  A shudder of relief, yes... but also of wonder.

  Who had been controlling that Cadillac?

  He hurried his wounded Nissan Z back to Summerhaven.

  First, he ascertained that no one was following him.

  Then, Jake Camden pulled on up the Summerhaven road toward the A-frame where he had left Scarborough and Marsha.

  Jake’s underarms were still sticky with sweat and he still felt shaken. It took the last shreds of his self-control, sorely taxed this day, that was for sure, to stop himself from going into the bar and having a double whiskey to calm his nerves. In fact, he almost did just that—until he remembered what a small place Summerhaven central was and how the local people were bound to notice what a wreck Bob Lander’s Z was—and didn’t he rent it out today to that vacationer? Since Jake knew of no alternate routes around the area, he hurried on through, just hoping no one would notice him.

  He was just going to leave the thing behind, anyway. Besides, he’d used fake ID to rent it. What the hell, the guy had insurance right? A little body work, a new back window, and it would be good as new.

  Kozlowski’s cabin was still there, all right, and there, parked in front of it was the Winnebago.

  Jake parked behind the RV for cover, took off his sunglasses, and got out. Up against the fresh smell of the pines, he suddenly became aware of how rank he was. Oh, well, better to be smelly and alive. Anyway, he’d smell a lot worse as a crisped corpse at the bottom of some desert ravine, with buzzards picking cooked meat from his bones.

  Ugh. What a thought!

  Scarborough and Manning were inside the cabin, waiting for him. They were drinking coffee and looking deadly serious as he walked in. What he intended to say—and angrily—was “Where the hell were you guys?” But what came out instead was: “Damn, am I happy to see you two!”

  “Jake,” said Scarborough. “There’s been a change of plans.”

  Jake collapsed in a chair, letting out a breath of relief. Nonetheless, he still felt stunned and not a little exhausted by his whole ordeal. “No kidding!”

  “We couldn’t go to the restaurant, Jake,” said Marsha.

  “Tell me something new!”

  “We’re not going to kidnap Schroeder.”

  “That’s good. So what happened?”

  Marsha Manning stood up and got Jake a cup of coffee.

  Then Scarborough told him.

  When the story was over, Jake drank the last of his coffee and set the cup down on the table.

  He grinned.

  “Now that is what I call a breakthrough.”

  “Jake, you look a mess,” said Marsha. “What happened?”

  Jake told them the essential story, leaving out the bit about his Temptation. He did mention Emily Elliot though, since it looked like that babe was going to fit into the picture again somehow in the future.

  And most certainly he told the story about the harrowing trip and chase up the mountainside, and the fiery results.

  “Car’s a real mess.”

  Scarborough nodded. “They said they’d watch over us.”

  “How could they have done that stuff with the driverless car, though?”

  “Automatic control,” said Scarborough. “I don’t know. They’re the strange and elusive aliens with bizarre powers.”

  “I don’t care how they did it,” said Camden. “I’m just glad they did it! Saved my butt, I tell you!”

  “Yes indeed. Our guardian angels—or guardian devils—are still at work.” Scarborough’s face looked drawn. He looked worried and preoccupied.

  “What, you still don’t trust them?”

  “They seem to be telling us the truth,” said Marsha. “They treated us well.”

  “Their story holds up very well,” said Scarborough. “And yes, I do believe them. We are going to cooperate, Jake. I don’t see any other choice right now.” He smiled wryly. “But you know me, Jake… A skeptic to the last.”

  “Hmmm, Hell yes, Scarb. And I must say, I don’t blame you. Strange stuff, all of it. Spooky, kind of.” He drank the last of his coffee, and had to admit that he felt a great deal better. “But what do they want us to do next?”

  Everett Scarborough sighed and told him.

  Jake Camden’s jaw dropped. “Oh my God.”

>   He got up and stiffly walked back to get some more coffee.

  From the sounds of it, this was going to be the drink of necessity for these next few weeks.

  Chapter 29

  The Adams-Morgan area of Washington, D.C. is an ethnic mix of a neighborhood with a jumble of restaurants on Columbus Road and Eighteenth Street—the center of the district—to match. These include Salvadoran restaurants, an Indian restaurant, Chinese restaurants, French restaurants, Mexican restaurants—but mostly Ethiopian restaurants, for which the area is particularly well-known. Indeed, Adams-Morgan had begun to rival Georgetown’s parking. Namely, none.

  Everett Scarborough and Marsha Manning sat in the darkened back of one of these Ethiopian restaurants—the Red Sea on Eighteenth Street—eating the spicy meat and vegetable stews dipped up with the spongy injera bread provided in abundance.

  They sat facing the rear of the restaurant. Scarborough had a beard. Marsha had her hair bleached out and wore thick eyeglasses and baggy clothing. It was nighttime and it was a Tuesday. All in all, they felt about as safe as they could be anywhere, considering their circumstances.

  Still, Scarborough knew they couldn’t exactly stay out in the public for long periods of time.

  “Good, huh?” said Scarborough, through a mouthful of lamb tibs, a succulent and fiery lamb dish.

  “You know, I’ve been through Washington lots,” said Marsha Manning, finishing her sip of honey wine. “I don’t know how I avoided eating at one of these places. I mean, I’d heard of Ethiopian restaurants before—I don’t know, maybe it just seemed like bad taste.”

  “But the taste is really good!”

  “No. I mean, you know—with people starving in Ethiopia and we’re eating their food!”

  “Well, logically that doesn’t quite follow.”

  “I know... but you know what I mean.”

  Scarborough nodded, seriously. “Yes, I imagine that the irony has been pointed out more than once within these walls. Anyway, actually, this is also known as Eiteran food—and it covers a little wider area than Ethiopia, in Africa.”

  “I just hope they don’t start playing Bob Geldorf songs here, that’s all.”