The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy

by David Bischoff

  His notes were scattered all over the desk and floor. The TV was on, volume off. Vanna White turned letters as the Wheel of Fortune twirled.

  “Okay, Jake. I understand,” she said softly, turning to him with a friendly smile.

  “You do?”

  “Yes, a lot of pressure here. A guy has to have a way to take off pressure, doesn’t he?”

  “Yeah! Thas’ right! You’re not so bad, you know?”

  She took him gently by the arm, in an almost solicitous manner. “I’ll let you be, Jake. But first, I’d like to show you something in the bathroom.”

  He seemed on the verge of falling to the floor, but Diane managed to support him, guiding him toward the bathroom. “Yeah?” said Camden. “What?”

  She flipped on the light and he flinched back. “Come on, Jake. It’s in the bathtub. I’ve got this thing for bathtubs. They turn me on. I thought maybe that you and I ... well, you know!” She tugged suggestively on his belt, half unlatching it.

  The alcohol-drenched eyes lit. “Yeah! I always knew you had a thing for me, Diane,” he said, clearly using high-proof logic.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Diane, maneuvering him so that he faced away from the tub. “I’ve had a thing for you, Jake.”

  Camden grinned woozily, and leaned drool-flecked lips, puckered and working, in her direction.

  “Total disgust!” she said, pushing him back hard. The back of his legs hit against the porcelain and his knees buckled. Arms flailing, he fell back into the tub. “Ouch!” he cried, hitting his head against the tile, and collapsing ass-first into the basin. Diane leaped forward and turned on the shower. She put a foot onto Camden’s chest, and then she turned the faucet all the way to C. Freezing-cold water slapped down onto Jake Camden’s face and body. He flapped like a fish, gulping and gasping, spitting out water. Diane kept her foot levered on him for a full thirty seconds, then let him go. He struggled out of the tub, then slipped and splashed back in.

  “What did you have to do this for?” he said, clambering out, dripping, his mouth working like a landed fish.

  “To try and sober you up so I can talk to you, Camden. Has this dump got room service?”

  “Uh uh.”

  “How about a coffee machine?”

  “Yeah. Downstairs by the soda machine.”

  “That’s going to have to do.”

  She marched the sopping man out of the room, down to the coffee machine, slammed two quarters into the slot, and made him drink the stuff on the spot.

  “Urgh. This is awful!” But he drank it.

  “Good. You’ll want another one then.”

  She bought him another, then took him back upstairs, setting him down on the bed. She took the remaining bottles of whiskey, one full, one half-full, and dumped them down the sink, then returned to the man, who was wide-awake and stunned, sitting on the bed.

  “Wow,” he said. “You’re a handful, aren’t you?”

  “Good. Half-sober is better than nothing. Are you listening to me, Camden?”

  “Yeah.”

  “My father sent me here to deal with Tim’s disappearance. I’ve notified the police, I’ve notified the FBI. I’ve done all I can. I’m supposed to stay here. But I can’t.”

  “That’s right. You’ve got to meet those ETs or whatever.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Tim told me.”

  “Good. Yes, that’s right, Jake. And I’m going. But I’m not going to go alone. You’re going to go with me. Sober—and with your camera. I’ve got two tickets for a flight to Las Vegas leaving at midnight. Guess what, Jake. You’re going with me!”

  Finishing his coffee, Jake choked a bit. His face grew red and Diane slapped him on the back a few times, harder than necessary.

  “Me?” he said. “Why me?”

  “I’ve been giving it some thought. I need backup, Jake. Tim was going to be my backup. I want proof this time. A photo, tape rolling, maybe even a Super-8 or videotape.”

  Jake sat down wearily, a droplet of water hanging from the end of his nose. “Diane, I work for a questionable newspaper. I’m a questionable journalist.” He sighed with self-disgust. “I can’t even handle my liquor. Get someone else. For your own sake.”

  “Sure, I’m going to go to the local TV and say, ‘Come out with me! I’m going to meet a flying saucer.’ Can’t do that, pal. Not with who I am. I can’t let it get any farther than it’s gotten, this whole biz—for my father’s sake. But I need someone to come along with me.”

  “Your old man, huh? Guess you’re a good daughter after all.”

  “Not really. He wants me to stay here and wait. I can’t. I can’t miss out on this opportunity! And neither can you, Jake!” She squatted down beside him, a sincere hand on his arm. “Jake, remember—this is your chance. The big story, Jake. Now for God’s sake snap out of it! You’re no coward! You just drink too much.”

  “Big story,” Camden mused, slowly emerging from his funk. “Yeah, that’s right. I really need that big story. I really need to keep my job, make some money...”

  “And don’t forget—become respectable!”

  Bloodshot eyes cast a tired glance her way. He drank some more coffee. “Yeah. Sure.” He snorted. “Leopard spots, and all that.”

  “We’re talking redemption here, Jake. Renewal ... a second chance. We’re talking maybe Pulitzer prize time! And you’ve got to be straight and sober, so drink that coffee up now. Let’s get you changed and packed.”

  She went to his closet, and opened the door. Camden’s loud and tasteless floral shirts hung there like thrift-shop rainbows.

  “Remind me, after we get to Vegas and rent a car,” said Diane. “We’re going to have to buy you something more subdued.”

  “Oh yeah. I can just see the headlines: First Fully Documented UFO Contact—A Black-Tie Affair.”

  She threw him some dry clothes. “Come on, Mr. Hotshot Reporter. Get changed. We’ve got a plane to catch.”

  Chapter 33

  It was still dark when they woke him up.

  “Scarborough,” said the brusque soldier, shaking his shoulder. “Hey, chum. Wake up.”

  Awareness settled around him in shades of black and white. He was lying on a metal cot, with only a wafer-thin mattress between him and its wire-mesh bottom. A joke of a pillow supported his head. The smell of industrial-duty disinfectant hung everywhere about him, making his stomach tum. He lifted himself up on the cot, rubbed the back of a hand across his eyes. “What’s happening?” he muttered.

  “You’re outta here, Scarborough. Don’t know what the hell you were doin’ here, anyway.”

  The words jolted him awake—but then wariness crept in. “Who ... who’s taking me?”

  The soldier—a sour-faced young private with short hair and a clear distaste for guard duty and late-night shifts—grunted. “Come on up to the front desk and find out.”

  Groggily, Scarborough obeyed, getting up, finding his coat, putting on his shoes, and staggering out the door of the room where they’d locked him up; no bars, just reinforced walls.

  Their treatment of him had been totally illegal. No phone call to his lawyer had been allowed. They’d simply stuck him inside the cell and thrown a little food and water in just after sunset. How much sleep had he gotten? he wondered as he traipsed down the corridor. Not much, his weary joints and the ball of cotton in his head answered.

  The military guard unlocked the door at the end of the corridor and ushered Scarborough out to the front desk, where a crew-cut man in wire-framed glasses sat, filling out a report in a cranky, humming typewriter. The clock on the wall said 4:35. Sitting in a wood chair by the desk was Lieutenant Marsha Manning, looking tired but determined.

  She brightened when she saw him. “Dr. Scarborough,” she said. “Are you all right?”

  “Nothing some coffee won’t help…” he said. “But how the hell...”

  The sergeant behind the desk looked up at Scarborough, then pulled the form from the p
laten of the typewriter.

  “Would you please sign this, Lieutenant?” As she signed, the sergeant gave Scarborough a disinterested examination.

  “Don’t know what you were doing here anyway, Doctor. Sorry about this. Just following orders.”

  “Well, thank God there were no showers or ovens, that’s all I can say!” Scarborough spat out sardonically.

  Manning grabbed his arm. “Come on, Ev. We’ve got to get you out of here. My car’s outside.”

  Scarborough glared at his former keepers, but allowed himself to be led out into the predawn night. The military barracks and nondescript buildings, separated by tracts of macadam and grass, stretched out toward lamp-lit highways. Manning had a Chevy Sprint this time. “On my own card this time, Ev,” she said, unlocking the door for him. “Hurry. Explanations in transit.”

  Bemused, he got in, automatically buckling the safety belt.

  Silently, Manning drove the car off of the base. It was only when she got on Route 1, headed away from the base toward Washington, that she said anything.

  “I’m taking you to National Airport, Ev. There’s bound to be an early flight to Kansas and you’ve got to be on it. Your daughter is in danger.”

  “Whoa there! Just a second! Start at the beginning!”

  She took a deep breath and told him how she’d gotten the legal information to get him out of confinement before Colonel Dolan could do anything else to him. She told him about her trip to argue with the colonel, to show him how he had erred. She told him about the meeting she had overheard between Dolan and the man he had called Richards.

  “Project White Book! Project Black Book!” Scarborough whispered between clenched teeth. “Publishers? Editors?” He felt so overwhelmed he could say no more. A deep nausea churned at the core of his being as he looked away at the vague mists rising up from the edges of the Potomac River. And Diane! Merciful God, Diane!

  “It took me a while, but I finally got hold of the commanding officer of the base. General Watkins. I had to go to his house, Ev,” she chuckled humorlessly. “I dragged him out of bed. You should have heard me. I made him deal with the whole business—but still, the paperwork took a few more hours. God, I don’t know how I did it, but I cut through about an acre of red tape!”

  “Dolan had no legal right to incarcerate me. I knew it, he knew it—but the bastard did it.”

  “Ev, I don’t know what’s happening, but it doesn’t sound legal to me at all! Have you got any kind of idea, after what I told you, what’s going on?”

  “Looks like my friend Mac MacKenzie was more right than even his paranoid mind could imagine. What we’ve got here is a conspiracy within the halls of power,” said Scarborough. “A conspiracy and a cover-up. God alone knows how far, how deep it goes, but for twenty long years I’ve been its dupe. And I mean to make up for those years. I want to see Dolan hanging from the masthead of the Washington Post by his balls!”

  “I’m doing the right thing, heading for National?”

  “Yes. I have to get to Diane first, get her out of this. Somehow, I get the feeling that Dolan and company—White Book, Black Book, whatever, are behind this sighting she’s made. Marsha, you’ve been a savior. Thank you. Yes, you’ve done exactly the right thing.”

  She put a hand on his knee. “Ev. Are you going to be okay?” she said, concerned. “You look pale as a ghost.”

  Scarborough nodded and squeezed her hand. “Yes. Yes, thanks. But what about you? Colonel Walter Dolan is not going to be thrilled when he finds out it was you that sprung me!”

  She smiled to herself. “No, he’s not. But he doesn’t know what I heard between him and that Richards guy. I’m positive of that, Ev. As for the rest—well, I’ve got over ten years of experience with the Air Force. I think I can handle myself. But I’m going to have to keep my nose clean. No more putting it where it’s not supposed to be or I don’t know what will happen!”

  “Yes. Yes, of course,” said Scarborough, preoccupied.

  They drove in silence the rest of the way to the airport, Scarborough thinking furiously. Diane was his first priority. He had to make sure she was safe. He’d hide her somewhere, then he’d take them on, the bastards. For MacKenzie, yes ... it was more than apparent that Dolan and this Richards man were behind his best friend’s murder. But now, it was bigger than that—he had to find out the truth. This was for himself. The enormity of what he’d stumbled across was too much to take all at once—just had to concentrate on action, or he’d turn into a useless puddle of spineless Jell-O.

  Dawn was just paling the horizon as Manning essayed the winding curves of the approach to National Airport and pulled up to the passenger drop-off point.

  “I wish I could have coffee or something with you, Ev. But I’ve got to get some rest before the shit hits the fan.”

  “I understand.” He leaned over and they shared a meaningful kiss. For a moment, Scarborough was back in bed with her in Iowa, and felt as though he just wanted to tell her to take them some place far away, away from this insanity, just the two of them.

  “I can’t thank you enough, Marsha,” he said, after breaking off the kiss.

  “I ... I...” she said, then stopped herself, and started again. “You’re a wonderful, good person, Ev. I wish you luck.”

  He was getting out of the door when she called him back. “Ev! Wait a minute!”

  She was busy scribbling on a card. “If there’s anything I can do for you ... any kind of help. Here’s my phone number back home.” She gave it to him, then she touched his cheek with a fingertip. “And Ev ... maybe you’ll call me anyway, if you’re ever in my neighborhood.”

  He touched her hand, nodded, then hurried off into the terminal to get a ticket for Kansas City.

  Somehow, Everett Scarborough managed to get a few minutes’ more sleep on the two-hour flight. When the Braniff 737 landed at Kansas City International, he rented a car and drove out to the motel where he’d told Diane to stay.

  The hotel clerk reported that Diane Scarborough had checked out last night.

  “What about Jake Camden?”

  The clerk looked at the records. “Hmm. He checked out about the same time.”

  Baffled, Scarborough called the local and state police of Diane’s community. They reported to him that yes, they were investigating the matter of the disappearance of one Timothy Reilly; yes, they had worked with Diane yesterday; but no, they had not heard from her today. Scarborough thanked them and hung up.

  He had one more lead. Kathryn Rashone, Diane’s girlfriend with whom she’d been on the night Tim had disappeared. Scarborough had met Kathryn, an anthropology student who shared a rambling old Victorian mansion with a group of other students on the edge of town. A bit fey for Scarborough’s tastes, but pleasant enough. Maybe Diane had left a message with Kathryn.

  There were no private lines in the house, and Scarborough had to wait at the telephone stand outside a 7-Eleven while the male student went to knock on Kathryn’s door.

  “Oh, hello, Dr. Scarborough,” said Kathryn, breathlessly picking up the phone. “I thought I might hear from you.”

  “Hello, Kathryn. Yes, I’m looking for Diane, and she’s not where she’s supposed to be.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m here at the university.”

  “Well, Diane said she didn’t want to leave a message with anyone she didn’t trust. She sounded kind of freaked. I mean, with Tim disappearing and everything, and all this strange UFO stuff, who could blame her. Dr. Scarborough, you’re the UFO expert. What do you think about all this weird stuff poor Diane’s been going through?”

  “Kathryn, I don’t have time. Could you please just tell me the message that Diane left?”

  “Oh, sure, Dr. Scarborough. Sorry. She says she’s sorry, but she has to go where you told her not to go. She can’t take the chance of missing out on an experience of a lifetime. But she wouldn’t tell me where, Dr. Scarborough. She said it might be dangerous to tell me exa
ctly where. Do you have any idea of what she meant?”

  Scarborough watched a little boy push through the glass doors and walk past him clutching a cherry Slurpee, sucking it up through a straw.

  “Yes, Kathryn,” he said, feeling a tingle of adrenaline shoot through him, feeling his heart pound harder with dread. “Yes, I know exactly where.”

  Chapter 34

  When Colonel Dolan called Brian Richards’s office in the morning at the CIA Building in Langley, Virginia, his secretary informed him that Mr. Richards was not in today. No, he wasn’t on field duty—he was at home.

  Richards lived in Great Falls, on the Virginia side of the Potomac, a woodsy and expensive area, a rustic bedroom community favored by many of the elite of the executive-end of government. Dolan had been to Richards’s house. It was a beautiful colonial on twenty acres of woodland. Deer could be seen in the morning at the salt lick that Richards kept in the backyard. The man had three kids, all in high school or college, and his wife was active in community affairs, just now serving in a county government position. When Dolan called Richards on his private, high-priority line, the man picked up almost immediately, his voice sounding irritated. As soon as Richards discerned that it was Dolan calling, he said, “I know why you’re calling. We have to talk. But not here, and not there. Meet me at our rendezvous Point 5 at exactly 11:15 A.M.”

  Dolan didn’t argue. Unquestionably, Richards knew the situation. Scarborough had somehow gotten himself released from incarceration, despite Dolan’s precautions.

  Dolan, who commuted to the Pentagon from his home in East Falls Church, got his Cadillac from the huge parking lot quickly, and was soon on the northbound George Washington Parkway. When Richards specified a meeting time to the quarter-hour, he insisted upon prompt arrival. Rendezvous Point 5 was within easy access to both of them for this time of day: Great Falls Park.