The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy

by David Bischoff

  “Daddy! You never told me this before!” she said, clearly quite amused at the notion.

  “Well, I guess I wanted to find out what the credulous were really like. I guess you’re aware of the phenomenon that quantum physicists are talking about these days: even observation changes the observed. Well, I know that when these saucerites see me, they have immediate reactions—I wanted to see what they were like without my sour face interrupting their fun.

  “Anyway, I went to see a speech by a lady who ran a UFO magazine. You’d think you’d get lots of information about sightings at such a speech, wouldn’t you? Well, no such luck. What I got was a shy lady who spoke about feeling ‘not of this earth’ since she was a child. She spoke of feeling ‘odd’ in a physical body. Naturally, when she learned of the possibility of creatures from the stars, she was fascinated. Did she even question the possibility that there were no visitors from the stars! No, of course not. She was not only ready for them, she sought them out.

  “Now, I thought that someone in the audience would point out the fallacy of this as a basis for intelligent and responsible journalism. But no one did. In fact, the predominant attitude of people was not only a fascination with the subject ... but a predisposition toward belief, even a preparedness for the general announcement that aliens had contacted the government! They were all involved in an almost religious belief-system which they reinforced amongst themselves.”

  “Daddy! That’s wild! If they’d known you were there, they would have crucified you!” Diane seemed very intrigued at the whole notion.

  “That’s not all. I sat in on a lecture by none other than Dr. Fenton Leiberman.”

  Leiberman was one of Scarborough’s archenemies—a UFO-ologist with a scientific degree who self-published his work and made a living touring and speaking about UFOs and the government cover-up. A good speaker, who used facts in a clever way, he was, nonetheless, in Scarborough’s opinion, an overweight geek in bottle-bottom glasses with a psychological paranoid hang-up that needed psychiatric treatment.

  “Daddy! Leiberman!” Diane was aghast and thrilled. Fenton Leiberman had once challenged Scarborough to a fistfight after one of their debates.

  “Yes. And he happened to be talking about then-President Ronald Reagan’s several remarks about a united earth, should aliens invade. Well, of course, being a UFO-ologist, he lapped this up! He didn’t see it merely as the mental meanderings of an old president going senile—he saw it as proof positive that “YES!” the president himself admits we are being contacted by extraterrestrials!”

  Diane shook her head. “That’s all very interesting, Dad, but what does that have to do with me?”

  Scarborough sighed. “Don’t you see, dear? Your father is a noted UFO debunker. First, it’s natural that you would want to rebel against the authority figure in your life ... I guess it’s part of the urge of achieving independence.

  “Second—and maybe I’m being paranoid here, but I have to be careful of these kinds of things——people know who you are. People who would like to have me put up for ridicule. Suppose someone set you up for this ... Suppose it’s a hoax, meant to make me look very, very silly!”

  Diane looked stunned and hurt. “You think ... you think that I would trick you! That I would do anything to, hurt you? You know I’d never do anything like that, Dad!”

  “Of course you wouldn’t—not consciously, anyway. But believe me, there are plenty of people in this country, in this world, at this time, who would like nothing better than to have me held up as a laughingstock. And what better method than to fool a credulous, spacy daughter, and drag the noted scientist and debunker into his discrediting? Mind you, I’m not saying that this is the case. I’m just saying that it’s something I have to consider. I’ve a reputation to uphold.”

  “And your reputation is more important than your own daughter, your own flesh and blood?”

  “No. But like I say, you’ve merely been the victim of a hoax—or you’ve suffered a delusion of some sort.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably, about to move on to a touchy subject. “Um, dear, I don’t want to pry into private matters concerning you and your Irish hooligan—“ It was a long-standing fact that Scarborough did not approve of Timothy Reilly. “But have you two been indulging in psychoactive drugs lately? This is a matter that I’m going to have to explore in my next book, since it’s coming to my attention more and more that the age of UFOs coincides with the age of psychedelics ... “

  “Daddy, you know what!” Diane said, standing up and pacing, throwing dramatic gestures about. “You’re simply impossible. Tim was right. He said that it would be useless to talk to you, that you’d never come back to help us out, that you’re too much of a tightass, that probably suppositories don’t melt in your rectum!”

  Scarborough laughed. “Diane!”

  “I should have listened to him! I should have just stayed in Kansas, explored this with Tim. I shouldn’t have bothered to come home to you.”

  “That’s not true, Diane. You know I enjoy seeing you. You know I don’t mind giving you advice.”

  “And you know what, Daddy dear,” she said, her own face reddening. “Here’s how much you can trust me—and you know that you can trust me. Because I know that there’s something in your past… something in Mom’s past ... God knows, something in my past… Things you won’t admit. Strange experiences, maybe even missing time. Mom told me about that business in Massachusetts you refuse to acknowledge, she told me before she died. I’m confused ... but maybe the hypnosis will bring that out too. But I’m not blabbing it, am I? I have the most damaging bit of information ... maybe the key to the very reason that you’re so obsessed with disproving UFO existence. I didn’t want to bring this up, but you’ve forced my hand!”

  Scarborough was stunned. He had no idea that Phyllis had mentioned that nonsense to their daughter. It could only have been when she was very ill with the breast cancer, when she was out of her mind. He struggled not to show alarm to his daughter as he responded. “I’ve made no secret of the reason for my interest in UFOs. It’s in my very first book, for all to see. I may have seen one myself, and I have a proven psychological disposition toward experiencing cultural archetypes. But I deal with it all in a scientific, logical manner. And my mission is to prove it to others, Diane. You know that!”

  “Admit it. The one thing that scares the great Dr. Everett Scarborough more than anything else is that there are extraterrestrials visiting this planet. Because that would open a whole can of worms ... Maybe a whole closet of skeletons ... And you want everything tightly sealed and catalogued and explained and well-lit. No room for mystery in the life of the Eminent Authority. No room for the mystical, the spiritual—because these things might just arouse some emotions in the Great Cold One, the Dean of Scientific Inquiry. Dr. Scarborough might just have to feel—really confront his emotions and, oh, that’s the most frightening possibility of all.”

  “Diane! How can you say these things to me! I feel—and right now you’re hurting me!”

  “I doubt it. You’ve been ready for this for years. You know exactly the words to say, the things to do—and your logic protects you. But Dad, I was here, I remember what it was like with you and Mom. Those days when you didn’t even speak with her or with me—those times when you were so aloof I didn’t even know I had a father. And the only time you really paid any attention to me was when I did something wrong ... Or worse, something that annoyed you. And heaven forbid that I should bring home a report card showing that I was less than Daddy’s little genius in math and science ... “

  “Your IQ is something I’m proud of, dear. Your aptitude in both math and the physical sciences show great promise and naturally I want you to take advantage of them—“

  “Bullshit.” Tears were dripping down from Diane’s eyes. “You just want me to be your little clone! Your little robot creation. Well, let me tell you, Mr. Wizard, I’m not a clone of you. I’m my own self. I know what I saw, and expe
rienced. And I’m going to discover what happened to me. And if your precious position in the golden Academy of Science, your vaunted reputation in the annals of letters is besmudged a bit ... well, too fucking bad!”

  Turning, she started running for the steps.

  “Where are you doing, Diane?” he said, struggling to remain calm.

  “I’m packing. I’m taking a cab. I’m going back to Kansas!”

  “You can’t do that!”

  “You keep on forgetting, don’t you? I’ve got my own money, Daddy. You don’t have my strings on that score. Mom left me enough to choose my own college and be independent while attending—and when I’m twenty-one, I’ll get the rest. You can’t control me, you can’t control my mind—I’m sorry I’m not the daughter you want me to be, and I’m sorry if I’m embarrassing you by having an open, exploring mind. Maybe if you weren’t so uptight about your standing in the scientific field, your precious reputation in the eyes of the public, your sterling career, then maybe you’d remember what science is really about, Dad. To learn, to venture, to discover. And you don’t have to worship a man who had an apple fall on his head to have a seeking heart, a questing mind!”

  She turned and rushed up the stairs, sniffling back her tears and rage.

  Scarborough followed her up a few steps, and then stopped when he heard the door of her room slam. He listened to the familiar sounds of luggage being tossed around.

  “Damn you! You’re just like your mother—at her worst!” he cried up at her. “Do what you like, Diane. Say what you will about me to whomever you want, you ignorant, willful child!”

  Suddenly, the door flung open and she was standing on the landing above, clutching her old giant panda bear, Colonel Blimp, its left eye still missing. “Oh yeah! Well, I’ve got a bit of news for you, Daddy, and you can choke on it. Guess who Tim wants to contact on this story? I told him no, but now that you’ve given me carte blanche, well, maybe I’ll reconsider.”

  “I don’t care who! I stand on my achievements, my reputation and they’re all on the hard bedrock of science, of the proven.”

  She screwed her face up almost comically, reverting to a rebellious, bratty girl. “Can you say, ‘Jake Camden,’ Daddy dear?”

  “Jake Camden!” The name stopped him cold.

  “I knew you could!” She threw the stuffed bear at him, and it knocked him down two whole steps. He looked back up, and she was gone, throwing luggage around again.

  His mind went wild with a terrible fatherly rage he hadn’t felt since she’d run over his prized tulip-bed with her bike when she was nine years old. He wanted to run up the stairs and strangle the insolent whelp—or, at the very least, take away her allowance for a month. But he quickly caught himself. He knew he could do neither. Frustration welled up in him like a physical thing as he visualized what a man like Jake Camden would do with a story like this. Oh, Diane knew his vulnerable spots all right, and when she was mad, she would zero in like a dive bomber.

  He took a deep breath.

  “Just don’t catch any disease, all right, Diane?” he cried, then stomped back down, stormed to the basement door, flung it open, stamped down and put on his CD of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.

  Loud.

  Chapter 8

  Jake Camden zoomed the rented Toyota Corolla down Route 80, topping the speed limit by thirteen miles per hour and blasting his Bob Seger tape just a notch past endurance. He would have preferred a convertible on this bright, sunshiny spring weekend. But this would have to do, awful blaring-red paint and all. What the hell, he thought, singing “Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Man” along with the Jensen speakers. Plane leaves tomorrow afternoon, and, hey, I’m free as a bird!

  Camden, after all, had his story now.

  He’d lined up several possibles for this Midwest UFO investigatory jaunt, but like Farmer Whitcomb, they were all just vague sightings. He could do them all by phone and ask the more gung-ho people to send in snapshots of suspicious footprints or burnt landing sites, like when he was back in Florida, working out of his office.

  Nope, he had the rest of the weekend to himself and he’d be damned if he was going to do any more work! These sightings were all the same anyway, he could generally predict what the rubes were going to blather on about. No imagination whatsoever! So that was Jake Camden’s job, imagination! Yes sir, he had imagination to spare—and all in a good cause. Expanding the minds of the untermenchen! “P.U.” Journalism, Camden dubbed it—pretty unusual. It provided a kind of meta-education to the great unwashed. Hey, Betsy Shoppingcart may not know Monet from Mozart, but she sure as hell knows that there are other planets in this galaxy that are probably sending spaceships to buzz the earth’s atmosphere. It may not hit the Carl Sagan Cosmos bulls-eye of edification, but, hey, it was in the same solar system!

  The wind blew back Camden’s long, greasy hair from his silver Ray-Ban sunglasses and he smiled as he thought about how easy this story was going to be. Hell, in a flash of brilliance he’d not only done a weekend’s work, he’d headed off into a delicious new tangent of Intruder inquiry ... And possibly created a foundation, a thesis for his new UFO book. He had reason to celebrate! Just a few more miles to the motel—take a nice siesta and a dip in the pool and then hit the Iowa City night-spots. His hangover was history, and he had to forge ahead, writing his name in beer and. whiskey. All research, anyway. Couple more years it would be time to investigate the aliens who actually ran the Betty Ford Clinic anyway!

  Camden smoked a Camel and grinned all the way down the highway.

  After picking up a bottle of Jack Daniels Kentucky-Fried Whiskey at a neighboring liquor store, Camden pulled into a parking slot at the Comfort Inn and carried his notebook, camera, and plain brown bag to Room 124, where he was staying, eyeing a couple of teenage cuties frolicking by the video game-room. Whew ... he thought. Maybe it’s time to check out the old hand-eye coordination.

  One of the perks of his job with the National Intruder was the travel. Normally, Camden wasn’t a travel nut and the only thing that got him through flights was heavy pill-popping—but it was a damn sight better than squatting in the middle of Nowhere, Florida, where the Intruder was headquartered. As part of his job, he had to regularly head out anyway, beat some stories from the bushes, and maybe do a little UFO investigation work as well—but mostly, he did the work quick and dirty and he used the time to just party, meet people, have some laughs; hell, he got half his story ideas from drunks and bartenders. It was all part of the research!

  Camden fumbled for his key in his jacket, and opened up 124. Immediately he was hit by a blast of air-conditioning and the smell of old beer and dead cigarette butts. The TV was on, muttering and flashing a basketball game. He walked into the carpeted motel gloom, closed the door, and opened up a shade.

  “Hey!” cried a groggy voice. “Don’t do that!”

  Camden grinned and put the brown paper bag on a table and sat down beside it. “Didn’t think you’d still be here, Carrie!”

  “Corey. The name’s Corey, and would you puh-leeze turn off that light.”

  “Sure, babe,” said Camden. He leaned the chair back onto his rear two legs, reached up and pulled the shade back down, so that the room resumed its previous subterranean darkness. Then he opened the radiator compartment and turned off the air-conditioning. From the debris on the table, he pulled out a used glass with a soggy cigarette butt floating in a half-inch of Budweiser. He dumped these contents into a full ashtray, pulled the Jack Daniels bottle out and filled the glass up halfway.

  “It’s one-thirty in the afternoon, Corey,” he said after a quick snort. He spat out a glob of ash. “When do you start dancing again?” .

  The pile of blankets and sheets and pillows— with a trail of long red hair peeking from them— coughed, and then replied, “Saturday, right? Not till 10 P.M. We’re open late.”

  “So, you decided to sack in at my digs, huh?”

  “No decision,” she said, pushing herself up. “Just
never woke up.” Green eyes smeared with mascara stared at him blearily as the covers rolled off of her, displaying two ski-jump breasts, young and perky as you please. She was a pretty girl, in the corn-fed tradition. Her Swedish and Germanic heritage had stamped out a predictably snub nose, high cheekbones, and square chin, all features of a smooth peaches-and-cream complexion. Corey was a student at the University of Iowa, who danced part-time at the bar. She was a business major, and, as far as Jake Camden was concerned, she could do business with him anytime.

  The perfume and musk rolled off her in delicious waves, and Jake found himself aroused, remembering certain highlights of last night’s thrashings. He grinned even wider. “Yeah, that’s okay. Stay as long as you like.”

  She collapsed backwards, her breasts flattening and jiggling like Jell-O. “Besides, Jake,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “You promised to tell me about flying saucers. You are the world’s authority—that’s what you told me last night, anyway. The next thing I know, I’m drunk and getting humped, and I came here to listen to UFO stories! You weren’t just using a line, were you? You are a newspaper reporter.”

  “That’s right, sweetheart.” He got up, trotted over to the dresser drawer, opened the briefcase sitting there, and pulled out a recent copy of the National Intruder.

  The tabloid was a definite offshoot of the National Enquirer school, its cover a noisy riot of color and screaming headlines. This particular issue promised juicy articles about Liz Taylor’s liposuction diet, Barbra Streisand’s sword-swallowing lessons, and an astrological guide to fast-food eating. The Intruder took its key from the Star in terms of graphics and look, but as far as contents went, it was an extreme version of the Weekly World News with a patina of respectability. It hired respectable reporters who needed money. Its writing was top notch, its photos were ace, it was a fast, entertaining read for Mary Oprah watcher or Joe Drinkbeer and at least 75 percent of what it printed was true, which made it top of the line, in the way of grocery-line papers.