The footsteps came around the comer and turned into a man. The man wore a leather jacket, jeans, and tennis shoes. He could have been any other Baltimorean walking the streets away from Fells Point. Only, from the way his head turned, from the way his eyes moved, it was clear that this man was looking for something or somebody.
And that feeling was starting to percolate in Scarborough’s gut, that terrible something he’d tried to ignore.
He waited for the man to pass, and then jumped him.
Scarborough was the bigger of the two, and his weight drove the man down. The man’s head hit a trash can. It banged, rolled away, and felled another trash can. The man struggled with surprising strength and agility, but Scarborough was able to roll him over and get a look at the face.
It was one of the men from Tower Records in New York.
Not the older man.
The younger man.
Scarborough hit him in the abdomen, hard, and air whooshed out the man’s mouth. Scarborough grabbed his neck and started squeezing. He had the strength of a madman. All his frustration, fear, and worry were like coiled springs in his body, releasing.
“Who are you?”
The man just gurgled and choked, strong hands clawing at Scarborough’s windbreaker.
“Who are you? Why are you following me? Where’s your friend?”
The man just struggled.
Scarborough released his neck, struck a blow across the man’s face that hurt his hand, and then pulled the man back off the sidewalk and into the garage driveway. The garage wasn’t residential, and it was dark inside; nobody would hear this fight unless they happened along by foot or car.
And Scarborough intended to make this as short as he could. He wasn’t in bad shape for a fifty-year-old, but he knew he couldn’t keep this up for long.
“Tell me, asshole, or I’m going to kill you!”
“Get off!” said the man, curiously placid for a guy who was getting beaten up. “This is not advisable!”
“What? Not advisable! What the hell is going on? Who are you?”
The man said nothing.
Scarborough, anger driving all fear from him, struck the man again across the face. The man’s head whacked back against the concrete, and he went limp. Unconscious. Damn! Scarborough hadn’t intended to put him out!
Still...
Scarborough felt around for the man’s back pocket and the bulge of his wallet. Yes, there it was. He pulled it out. Black leather. The usual man’s wallet. Scarborough opened it, expecting some kind of badge or ID.
Nothing but credit cards and a driver’s license.
He pulled the stuff under a sodium light.
The driver’s license was from New Mexico.
The name on it was Philip Roscoe Newton.
There was an address as well, but Scarborough didn’t get the chance to read it. A blow came out of nowhere, landing on the back of his head with a sickening thud that drained all light from his eyes, and all awareness from his mind.
When he woke up, Scarborough was lying in the garage doorway.
The first thing he thought was that he’d drunk too much and had an accident. He felt sick and disoriented. Scarborough had woken up hung over before, but he’d never been hit hard over the head, so he had nothing to relate it to but hangovers.
His head hurt badly, and he felt dizzy, though, and so it only took a few seconds before he realized that this headache wasn’t from drinking. The memory flooded back ... The man ... The struggle ... The wallet...
The wallet. Scarborough looked down at his hands.
No wallet there, but clasped in his palms was a piece of paper.
Groaning, Scarborough got to his feet, feeling at the back of his head. No bump. And when he brought his hand back and looked at it, there was no sign of blood either. He shook his head and took a deep breath and then staggered over into the pool of light.
He opened the paper that he’d been clutching in his hand.
Its block print read: “The time is not right. Be careful, Scarborough. Be very careful.”
Scarborough turned it over. That was all it said; there was nothing at all on the back.
His headache was fading to a dull throb, and he felt as
though he could walk now.
A deep free-floating anxiety gripped him.
Who were these people?
What did they want with him?
He crumpled the paper, stuck it into a pocket of his jacket, and started to slowly make his way back to the car.
He could almost feel their eyes burning through his back.
Who were they?
Somewhere, deep inside, he had the feeling that if he could find that out, then a lot of the byzantine puzzle that faced him would fall, at last, into place.
Somewhere in the harbor, a boat’s whistle sounded. Above, a cloud folded around the moon like a fist.
Scarborough walked back to Fells Point, the taste of blood in his mouth, and determination bellowing in his veins.
Chapter 17
It was dark and quiet on Wright-Patterson Air Force Base as Lieutenant Marsha Manning stepped out from her office at nine-thirty in the evening and made her way to Storage Area Number 34, her magnetic ID-card gripped in her hand.
The sky was partly cloudy, but fortunately with no taste of rain in the air. It had gotten slightly chilly, though, so Manning wore a sweater underneath her parka. The smell of jet exhaust and the grease of the motor pool touched the air, a gritty edge to the otherwise sweet smell from the beds of new-blooming lilies besides the Officers’ Quarters.
No comment had been made about her working late—her fellow officers knew that she had a deadline, and besides, she worked late often. So now, with the base practically deserted, she felt safe stepping out to check up on this bin containing the classified material.
It had taken her most of last night to break into the ID department and to cobble up the necessary programming to give her card access to the lock, and also to make sure that using it wouldn’t ring a red light somewhere.
Fortunately, this particular classified material wasn’t of an extremely high level. If it had been, it probably wouldn’t be on Wright-Patterson, anyway, and there’d be a human guard out there. The programming was primitive and relatively simple, but Marsha was careful and took her time. She found the proper code and then gave her own card access, writing in a temporary subroutine that would conceal her entrance-a subroutine that she could easily call up again and erase, so that there would be no computer evidence of tampering, either.
She felt excited. She felt as though she were walking on eggshells. She was worried, too, about Everett Scarborough. There had been no calls from him, although she had gotten a call from Camden, who’d filled her in on Scarborough’s activities and troubles. Imagine, his own editor, a traitor. One of them! She felt happy that her own loyalty was intact; Scarborough was a good man, a man who stood for something honest and forthright, and there were precious few people these days who could measure up to that ideal. Maybe that was one of the things that attracted her to him, that sense of righteousness about him.
Camden had agreed to keep in touch. She’d decided not to tell him about her little mission tonight. She trusted Scarborough, yes, but she didn’t really trust Camden. Who knew, her antics might pop up on the headlines of the Intruder in a couple of weeks—”Secret Informant Reveals Quest for Crashed Saucer Spacemen!” It wouldn’t take much for the brass to figure out who that informant was, and then wouldn’t her ass be in a crack!
No. Best to keep this to herself for the time being. If she found anything interesting, she’d tell Scarborough. If she didn’t, she probably wouldn’t even mention any of it to him. He had other things to worry about.
She’d walked most the way there, when suddenly the twin headlights of a vehicle roamed around a corner, and the familiar engine noise of a jeep growled her way. She just ignored it, eyes kept straight ahead.
The jeep stopped.
Manning felt an involuntary contraction of her muscles, as though she’d been caught in the act. But no, that was silly. No way would whoever this was know where she was headed or what she was doing.
She stopped and looked into the jeep. Yes, the voice was familiar. “I’m sorry ...” .
“Geez, I guess even good looks don’t shine in the dark. It’s Pete, Marsh. Pete Adams. you know, the guy that bought you a couple of nice dinners, took you to a concert ... You forget so quickly. Say, I’m off duty in ten. What about a drink at the Officers’ Club?”
Lieutenant Peter Adams. One of the several officers she’d dated since she’d been transferred here to Wright-Patterson. A nice, bland-enough sort, she guessed, and though she’d had a couple of nice kisses with him, Marsha made it a policy to not get sexually involved with an Air Force guy unless she simply couldn’t stop herself. And with Pete, that was easy.
“No thanks, Pete.”
“Rats. Guess a poor bachelor’s guy’s going to have go home alone to his Batman comics. Say, what are doing out here in the boonies, anyway? Need a ride or something?”
“No. Just taking a walk. Anything wrong with that?”
“Hey, don’t get defensive! I just asked. Sheesh ... Tell you what, I’m going to stop off at the club anyway, see what’s goin’ on. If you want, drop by and I’ll buy you a Singapore Sling. The kind with the little umbrellas, you know?”
“Thanks, Pete. I’ll think about it.”
“De nada. Adios, Marsh. Watch out for Air Force rats down there in the storage areas. They’re big suckers.”
Marsha cringed as the jeep roared off into the night.
Rats. Damn. She hated rodents of any kind, and rats were number one on her hate-list. And now she had to go rooting around in some dark and dusty storage space.
Right. Thanks, Pete, she thought. Just what the girl needs to send her on her way. Nonetheless, she struck out again for her destination.
The old hangar was hunkered down in the darkness like a sleeping giant. Its corrugated metal sides glimmered dully beneath the moon and the few stars that broke through the haze unclear otherwise drifting in the sky. The area smelled of wet tarmac and old tires, of rusty fences and the forgotten past.
Manning walked the last few paces swiftly.
There it was. The gate. The card box.
She turned on the small light provided.
She pulled up her ID card and stuck it in the slot, and fingered out her code.
The gate clicked.
It was open now. Manning breathed a sigh of relief. All she had to do was to push it open, go in. She turned off the little light, braced herself, and took a step toward the gate.
Headlights fixed her as the roar of an engine approached.
Manning’s heart jumped to her throat.
Damn! Was this some kind of MP patrol in this area that she hadn’t known about?
She pulled her hand away from the gate and swiveled around to confront the new arrival.
“Yo! Marsha! Sorry to bother you, but I didn’t think you’d be coming to the club and I just remembered. I got two tickets to the theater next weekend and no date! Whatcha say?”
Manning relaxed somewhat. Pete. Only Pete Adams.
“What’s playing?” she said, sounding cool.
“It’s a revival of some Noel Coward play. All Brit actors, touring company. Supposed to be real good.”
She let him dangle for a moment.
“When again?”
“Saturday week.”
“Okay, Pete. I’ll go. Thanks.”
“Great. Say, whatcha doing here?”
“Just curious. Making a spot-check of security arrangements for storage. Part of this new assignment I’m on.”
“Oh ... so that’s why you’re in the area. It didn’t really make much sense, but Pete Adams’s happy voice showed he was so pleased at the acceptance to his offer, he wasn’t thinking about much else. “Say, what about a late dinner at my place after the show, too. Some vino, a little light jazz ...”
“That would be very nice, Pete. I’ll look forward to it.”
“Great. I’ll call you this weekend with the details.”
“Fine. See you, Pete.”
The engine hummed to life again, and wheels screeched away into the darkness.
Manning allowed herself a heavy sigh of relief, and then took another few deep breaths for good measure. She walked to the gate, opened it. It squeaked loudly from rusty hinges, but there was no one in the area to hear. Still, she moved it slowly and carefully, and then placed it back much the way she’d found it, only not locked.
She stepped lightly over to the side door of the hangar. The front access doors, through which planes had been dollied in and out years and years ago, had been cinder-blocked and cemented shut.
The side door of the hangar was locked as well. However, it too had a computer access box, albeit with a separate entry code. Manning had predetermined that code and she carefully tapped it in now.
A whir, a click.
The locking equipment of course was much brighter than the old door that surrounded it; it was much newer. It opened easily at Manning’s touch, and she pushed her way in.
Dust.
The interior smelled of dust and age. She’d brought along a small flashlight, and clicked it on, using the cone of light to search out the main light-switch. After finding it, she first closed the door behind her, and then clicked the light on. A series of dim bulbs lit up, revealing aisles of shelving, wire cages, and containment boxes. She had no worry of these lights being seen from the outside. The hangar had no windows.
It looked like an abandoned warehouse. There was no sign of recent activity here—all the stuff stored seemed to be old files, boxes, and such, along with labeled crates.
Manning smiled to herself. She was reminded of the ending of Steven Spielberg’s Raiders of the Lost Ark, where the Ark of the Covenant is stored in a vast government warehouse.
The bins were wire cages and compartments, located on tiers of shelving that rose up to the arching roof. Each compartment was lettered. Manning knew which compartment she was looking for. She’d memorized it.
Bin 27.
As she walked, the echoes of her low, regulation shoes scuffed through the hangar, causing a subterranean effect. She checked the numbers at the ends of the shelves. Finally, she found the aisle she was looking for.
As she started down the dim, shadowed alley, she heard sounds from the opposite end.
Snicks.
Scurries.
Those rats that Pete Adams had been talking about?
An involuntary shudder hurried up through her spine. She stopped in her tracks. The sounds had disappeared.
Rats. She hated rats. She forced herself to continue.
The dimness in the aisle was such that Manning had to fish out her flashlight again to read the numbers on the bins. Halfway down, toward where the hangar’s airplane-doors had been, the bins were much larger, with no shelving tiers on top of the floor. She found the bin marked 27.
It was open. Beside it was a label.
Manning read the label with her light:
CLASSIFIED. ROSWELL, 1947. Materials discovered on Brazel Ranch. See: Research composition analysis reports, 1947, 1955, 1960, 1965, 1970, and 1979. Analysis reports via Special Lab, White Sands, New Mexico. Remainder of materials from Roswell crash, Adjacent Bin 27.
Manning opened the cage of the bin, and flashed her light inside.
The reflection almost blinded her a moment. She had to aim the light off to the side wood wall to see properly. Sure enough, what lay on the floor was a big pile of highly reflective material. It looked at first like metal, but then she saw that whole pieces of it looked crumpled and a little dirty or burned in spots, like aluminum foil used in some massive barbecue pit. She stepped into the bin, knelt before the stuff, and picked a length of it up.
Remarkably light, despite
its thickness. And strong! Not like foil at all.
She went further in, picked up another larger piece.
With a shriek, a fat, furry body hurtled out from the darkness beneath, skittering away into a comer.
Manning couldn’t help the scream that burst from her. Her heart was pumping hard, and she stepped back against wall, trembling.
It took her almost a full minute to recover.
C’mon, Lieutenant, she told herself. The rat’s more afraid of you than you are of it! Get a grip! She rallied and stepped back over to the metallic material. She would have liked to take a piece of it with her, but they seemed simply too large to haul away, and of course there was no way she could possibly hope to carry one of them back with her to the car!
It didn’t make any difference. The significant thing was that this stuff didn’t look like anything Marsha Manning had ever seen before. That was something she could definitely report to Scarborough. Also, there was the label. “Roswell Crash,” it had said. Something had fallen in New Mexico, and this proved it. But the question was; what was it?
Maybe whatever it was lay in Adjacent Bin 27.
She left the pile of odd metallic stuff and went a little farther down the row, to a door with the appropriate label.
This was a very large bin—large and deep. Perhaps thirty yards by another twenty. Inside was a dark form.
Manning put her light on the form. It was perhaps eight feet high. and stretched out another twenty-five, tapering down from a hump in the middle. But the form was irregular, as though it were just a large pile of refuse ... Looking closer, manning could see that it was covered by a huge tarpaulin.
She tried the compartment’s door. It was not locked, so she went in.
The tarp looked like the sort they covered jets with, but quite old—certainly older than anything mechanics would use nowadays. She lifted a frayed edge, wary of any rats running out.
Nothing.
She pulled up the edge of the tarp further, and there appeared to be more of the strong, foil-like metallic stuff, attached to odd-shaped struts and fixtures.
Well, the tarp’s light enough, she thought. Might as well go for the whole kit and caboodle!
The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy Page 56