The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy

by David Bischoff

  “Ahhhhh!” said Mashkin putting the beer down on the table. “First bottle of the day’s always best. Course, I ain’t no alky, Mr. Scarborough. I take Tuesdays, Thursdays, and sometimes Sundays off from my beer. “Now then, first off, I have to tell you I’m real glad you made it here, all right.”

  “Thank you, Walter. It was a pretty intense journey.”

  “I’m real puzzled, though, I must say. I know your books and I know your reputation. I still don’t understand how come you chose a saucer feller like yours-truly to come to for help. Not that I mind giving you help. Shit, no, I’m delighted! Mind you, I’m still curious.”

  Scarborough nodded and sipped his beer. “I guess the last month has changed me somewhat, Walter. First, however, as I said on the phone, you are close to the place where I need to go.”

  “Oh, sure. But Mr. Scarborough—” The man grinned, revealing a gap in yellowed teeth. “I’m an UFOol, right?”

  Scarborough cringed a little. “Touché. I suppose I deserved that. Mr. Mashkin—Walter. I still do not think that we are being visited by intelligent life from another planet. However, I’m almost certain at this time that many of the UFO sightings, in this country at least, were perpetrated by an outlaw subsidiary of the government.”

  Mashkin laughed and slapped his knee. “Well, golly, and my friends down at Tumbleweed Bar and Grill say I’m paranoid!”

  Scarborough stiffened and managed a slight smile. ‘’I’m afraid, Walter, that even paranoids have people after them.”

  Walter Mashkin roared with laughter. “Very good, my friend. Okay. Ice is officially broken.”

  “In my case, it’s the CIA. This is why I called you. I remembered your letter to Captain Eric MacKenzie concerning your friend Harry Reynolds. I think that there is indeed dirty work involved in that case.”

  “What you think, that the CIA kidnapped Harry?”

  “Or a part of the CIA.”

  “Hmmm, Interesting. It kind of appeals to me. Not the fact that Harry’s gone, mind you. The theory. But I really miss Harry’s broadcasts and his letters. Met him a few times at UFO conferences: What a character! Guess maybe part of the reason this stuff interests me so much is the kind of people you meet.”

  “Yes. Well, it is there that I have changed my opinions, Walter. I had always scorned those who believed in flying saucers. But I believe that I can trust you because the one thing that I find in many UFO aficionados is sincerity and a search for something. I guess I’ve had my priorities wrong for quite a few years.”

  “Still and all, Mr. Scarborough ...”

  “Everett. Or Ev, if you like.”

  “Ev. What kind of paranoid thing is it to go to a stranger for help?”

  “It isn’t only me who needs help, Walter. As you may recall, it was you who asked for my friend’s help in discovering what happened to Harry Reynolds. I’m offering you the opportunity to perhaps do just that. And help me along the way, in the process.”

  Mashkin nodded soberly. “Yeah, that sure makes sense. Sorry, but I just had to ask you straight out, Ev. Oh, and by the way, I’m real sorry to hear about the death of your friend Captain Mackenzie. Right off, I’d say I don’t think you done it. “

  “I didn’t. I could prove it in a court of law, but I don’t have time to take that recourse. You see, Walter, as I said on the phone, my daughter-and her fiancé in the bargain-have been kidnapped. By this branch of the CIA, I think. And I have reasons to believe that they are being kept in an experimental installation quite close to Kirtland Air Force Base, just outside of Albuquerque.”

  “How come you think that?”

  Scarborough told him briefly.

  “Basically, Walter, I believe that this is what may have happened to Harry Reynolds. I believe that this group kidnapped him—perhaps to concoct some sort of pseudo-Encounter of the Fourth Kind, so that Reynolds could broadcast that story ... But then, suppose something went wrong? Why, they’d have to kill him, wouldn’t they?”

  Mashkin’s eyes were, by now, quite wide. “Wow-wee. Ain’t that something?”

  “Can you see that all this leads to my inevitable conclusion, Walter? All the rest, like why they’re doing this, is in the area of speculation. But you see, if it’s true, and if you really want to find out what happened to your friend, you can do so by helping me. Even just letting me stay here would be a great help.”

  Mashkin’s face broke out into a large grin. “Ah, shit, I’ll help you lots more than that, Ev!”

  “Then you believe me?”

  “Can’t rightly say I actually believe you. It’s a pretty wild story, but I’ll help you find out if it’s true. What I can do here in New Mexico, anyway. Can’t go out more than a day or so, on account of my business. I’m a plumber, you know. Gotta make a livin’.” He took another sip of his beer. “But I’ll tell you, I don’t disbelieve you. You see, Ev, that’s my philosophy, and that’s what got me in the saucer world.”

  “I don’t quite follow.”

  “Well drink up that beer and this one, too, and maybe you’ll get a little nearer.”

  Mashkin got up to get them both fresh beers. Scarborough shrugged and took a deep drink of the Budweiser. He felt comfortable in this house for some reason. He had the feeling that he could trust Mashkin, which was good, because he had to.

  Mashkin levered off the tops of the bottles, split up the pair and handed one to Scarborough. “Here, you start working on this and come on down to the basement. I got something to show you.”

  Scarborough stood, took the beer and followed. “What’s down in the basement, Walter?”

  “You’ll see.”

  He led him through a corridor branching off into bedrooms and a bathroom, and then opened a wood door that dived into gloom. He flicked on a light and beckoned Scarborough to follow.

  After the comfortable but plainly old, lived-in, and rather tacky upstairs, Scarborough was surprised to find himself walking down the steps into a bright, well-lit, fully finished basement. One section was an office with a Leading Edge computer, a printer, book shelves, and the usual office accoutrements. Another was an entertainment center, including a large TV screen, a VCR, and a neatly filed stack of tapes. On the other side was a regulation-size pool table with neatly racked cue sticks and balls on the wall. Between these two sections was a large modern Magnavox stereo system, complete with tape deck, an equalizer, and, glory of glories-a compact disc player.

  Scarborough wandered over to the shelf immediately above the system.

  “Compact disks!” he said.

  “Yep!” said Mashkin, beaming proudly. “Got a nice set-up here, don’t I? Surprised you, huh? That there computer’s what I do my correspondence and UFO articles on. God, I love to write! Nothing better than slipping in a good CD or tape and then letting these fingers go on my keyboard!”

  “I know what you mean, Walter. I do indeed!”

  There were a couple hundred CDs on the shelf, but when he looked at the titles, his heart fell.

  They were practically all country-western and rockabilly. Absolutely no jazz. Nil classical.

  Mashkin walked over and pulled out a jewel-case, holding it up for Scarborough to see.

  “You like the King, Ev?”

  The compact disk was The Sun Sessions.

  “Ah, er—well, I’m not a big fan, no.”

  “Too bad. What a great singer. Whew. I remember, 1954, I was twenty years old and driving a truck down to Knoxville, and that voice of his comes warbling out of my car radio. Shivers just went down my spine. That’s it! I think. That there’s the voice of my soul and don’t it just sound purty as hell, too. Well now, Ev, to get back to what we was talkin’ about—belief and disbelief. You hear those stories about Elvis Presley still being alive?”

  Scarborough cringed a bit.

  “Well, you know, I don’t know what to believe. I never met him, but I seen him do his shows. I seen him at Vegas, too, though that was just out of loyalty. But you know, I never s
een him dead. And I know he’s alive, here ...” He pointed at his record collection. “Here.” His head. “And here.” His heart. Looking a bit somber, Mashkin then went over and pulled a sliding cabinet-door open. Inside deep shelves were piles and piles of tabloid newspapers. Scarborough glimpsed the Sun, the Star, the National Enquirer, and of course, the Intruder. Mashkin patted a pile contemplatively. “So I read all these reports. And they ain’t just in the tabloids; I read the books about them, hear people’s stories. I mean, of course, about the King bein’ alive. What do you think, Ev? You think Elvis Aaron Presley’s fooled everybody and is walking the earth today?”

  “I never really thought much about it, to tell you the truth,” said Scarborough, diplomatically.

  “You know what I think, Ev? I think, maybe it’s true. That’s my philosophy. I’m open. I’m what you call in your books ‘credulose.’ “

  “Credulous, you mean.”

  “Yeah. I’m open. You know, since I been a baby, people been telling me things. They tell me things that later on I find out ain’t necessarily true. They say, ‘Walter! The Lord Jesus is Thy Savior and you’re gonna go to hell, lessn’ you know him as Personal Savior.’ Well, heck, I like Jesus and God and all, and that could well be the truth. But you know, what about all these other beliefs? Are they all wrong? And they say, ‘Walter! You gotta be married before you put your manhood where it was made to be put!’ Well, long about eighteen years of age, that manhood of mine started leading me to where it wanted to go, and I didn’t get hit by no bolts of lightnin’ ‘cause I weren’t married to the girls. I just got some good levin’, some life, some friends, some enemies, in the process. ‘Walter!’ they tell me in high school science, ‘There ain’t no such thing as flying saucers!’ But I’m twenty-two years old, driving a truck through the Smokies, and I swear to God, I see three of ‘em, just asmoothin’ through the sky like sailing ships of the night, lit up in just incredible colors.” Walter shook his head, sipped his beer, pinky sticking out. “Yep, Ev. I’m a credulous son-of-a-bitch. And I’m damned proud of it, too.”

  “Have you seen other flying saucers, Walter?”

  “Nope. Only time. It was enough, though. It was like Saul on the road to Damascus. Zap. And now, I’m just as fascinated with the damned things as ever before. Shit, we could talk a couple days about the subject, much as we both know about it, and not get anywhere. So why don’t we just call a truce on it. Let’s just say, Yep. I’ll help you, Everett Scarborough, ‘cause you’re asking for help, and ‘cause I want to find out what happened to Harry. And maybe, if you’re right, and these bastards are doin’ what you say they’re doing, then to help stop it. Me and the government ain’t real good friends, I tell you that!”

  “I’m not disputing the system, Walter. I’m just saying that a group of people have apparently been successful in defying and abusing that system.”

  “Well hell, Ev. People have been doing that for years. C’mere, I wanna show you somethin’.” Mashkin beckoned him over to another sliding door, and opened it. He moved some books and pointed.

  Recessed into a cinderblock wall was a wall-safe.

  “That where I keep my money, Ev. I don’t got no truck with government. I do a purely cash business. I keep my money outta banks. They can track you that way, those IRS bastards. They can even’ steal the money away from you, if they want! Now, mind you, I pay the state taxes. I love New Mexico. And I love the United States of America, too, and I pay excise and sales taxes and all the other taxes. But Ev, if our Founding Fathers intended for American citizens to be taxed on their income, they woulda put that in black and white in the Constitution. Way I figure it, that part of the government is sucking us citizens dry. And let me tell you, they come snoopin’ around here on my private-and-paid-for property, I got somethin’ ready for ‘em.” He strode to another cabinet, this one on the wall, and flung the doors open. Hanging inside was a large collection of handguns, a rifle, and one shotgun. “Got another Remington in the back of my truck, too, and a damned good lawyer in the city, too.”

  “I see,” said Scarborough a little taken aback by the fervor of this previously mild man and by his extensive gun collection.

  Mashkin suddenly grinned and winked. “I just wanted to let you know, Ev, that I ain’t got no compunction ‘bout working against the rotten parts that have festered in this great nation’s government.”

  “I’m afraid that you won’t get a chance to shoot any revenue agents, Walter.”

  “Well then, CIA slime will just have to do!”

  Scarborough shook his hand. “It’s very nice to meet you, Walter Mashkin. I have the feeling that this will be a fruitful relationship for us both.”

  Mashkin’s handshake was firm and cold from the beer bottle. “I’m glad, Ev. I’m real glad you called. Now, what say we play us a game of pool as kind of a sealing of the pact of friendship, eh? And then I ‘spect you’d like to have yourself a little siesta, so I’ll just show you to the guest room. That is, after I beat you.”

  “I don’t know, Walter. I’m not too bad at pool.”

  “Ah-ha. I’d hustle you real proper-like, Ev, but I got a feelin’ a man on the run from the government ain’t got whole lots of money on ‘im.”

  “You reckon right, Walter.” Scarborough was honestly starting to feel good, at home, relaxed-the first sign of true lack of tension since he’d taken refuge in Marsha Manning’s home. “But I guess I could spare five dollars to stake on the game. I could use another five ... or ten, if you’re so sure that you’re going to beat me.”

  “Woo—ee. Is that a challenge I hear? Consider your five bucks gone, fella!” The lanky man strode over and carefully took the cover off the table, folded it carefully, and put it on a chair. He knocked on the green felt. “Genuine slate, Ev! Flat as Olive Oyl’s chest! This thing’s half a century old. I refurbished it myself.”

  “Very lovely.”

  “So.” He gestured at the rack of capped wooden sticks. “Select your weapon! And prepare to do battle, as I rack the balls. “

  Mashkin happily set down his beer on a side table, put the rack on one of the table’s two spots, and began to pull the balls from the pockets and set them into place. “Old-fashioned bottom, Ev. None of that chutes-and-ladders stuff, just some sturdy leather beneath the pockets! You wanna flip for break?”

  “Better. I’ve never seen you break before.”

  Mashkin pulled a quarter out of his pocket. Scarborough won the toss. “Eight ball, I take it?”

  “That’s where you are, ain’t it, Ev?”

  “Yes.” Scarborough lined up and shot. The break netted him the Seven ball, which meant that he had to sink the other solid balls before he tried for the Eight. “Behind the Eight ball.”

  “You know, Ev. I guess I was wrong all those years.”

  “Yes? About what?”

  “Well now, I been following you for your whole career, UFO stuff bein’ my avocation. And from the time I read your first book, first seen you on the TV, I would think to myself, Whew!—” He held out his cue stick held straight up--”Boy, that fella must have one of these things rammed up his rear, straight through his brain.”

  Scarborough thought about that a moment with a frown and a sigh, scratched his nose, and smiled sadly. “Well, Walter, when I traveled, I enjoyed a good game of billiards on the road and my bags were too small—so I guess I had to put it somewhere!”

  As Walter Mashkin chuckled heartily, Scarborough aimed the stick against the cue ball and sank the Two ball.

  He won his ten dollars handily.

  Chapter 23

  The Gamma Complex, the core of the operation called White Book, was on the exterior a very plain and old-looking standard military building dating back to the postwar building boom, and beginning to look its age. It stood about ten miles south of the center of Kirtland Air Force Base, harking back to a day of military expansion. Much of it had ceased being used much after the Vietnam War ... but then, Brian Richards�
�s predecessor had seen its potential, and established it as part of the White Book network. There were four buildings, lots of tarmac, and a helicopter pad, all surrounded by a wire fence with only one entrance and exit, where two armed guards checked in authorized personnel.

  Despite the drab facade, Gamma Complex’s interior had the streamlined look of a rocket-launching base, complemented by the latest in technological equipment gleaming behind stainless steel doors. However, as modern as the computers, the lab equipment, and the medical paraphernalia employed were, the conference room that Dr. Julia Cunningham sat in now was just as drab and spartan as the quarters they’d assigned her in the accommodations building to the north of the quadrant.

  It was four o’ clock in the afternoon, and they were supposed to be here, dammit!

  Cunningham was a person who valued punctuality, valued her time schedule, and certainly had pressing duties ahead of her in the lab. They’d already postponed the morning meeting, and rescheduled it for four P.M. so now where the hell were they?

  She poured herself another glass of the iced mineral water and sipped. She felt much better now, much improved after her ordeal of the morning. It wasn’t just the drugs she’d added to her neuro-chemical network. A good day’s work, with a nutritious breakfast and healthy lunch, had evened her disposition out, and she was starting to feel normal.

  Up until now, that was.

  As she again examined the digital face of her watch which read 4:05:24, she realized she had the beginnings of a headache.

  Damn Richards!

  Logically, she knew that there must be some kind of glitch, but somehow she could not help but feel that the man was doing this to punish her, taunt her. Although their sexual relationship had been over for several years, after they agreed that it was too dangerous and might foul up the operation, Cunningham could not help but continue her emotional relationship with him. She still loved the bastard, in a deeply disturbed and twisted way, and she suspected why. A shrink would tell her that it was because of her sick relationship with her father.