The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy

by David Bischoff

  Marsha shrugged. “Unlimited mileage, Mr. Mashkin.”

  “All right, all right, so much for the suspense!” said Scarborough, irked, despite himself. “Walt, where the hell do you intend to take us?”

  “Well, don’t rightly know if I can take you anywheres. Gotta go and make a certain phone call first. Just checking on matters of feasibility and availability, that’s all.” He tipped an imaginary hat to Marsha. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just retreat to my Den of Iniquity and Inquiry to make the necessary phone call.”

  Walter Mashkin left. Soon after came the sounds of an opening door and footsteps pounding down the cellar steps.

  “Wall ya’ll ... do ya thaynk that’s whereuh he keeps his alien moonshine!” drawled Marsha.

  Scarborough laughed. The tension between them was immediately broken. “Actually, he’s got a very nice basement. He’s got a word processor down there which he uses to correspond with UFO magazines and other UFO aficionados.”

  “Quite a character!”

  “You don’t know a fraction of it!” Scarborough rolled his eyes, but he smiled. “I like him, though. What’s the term? Salt of the earth?”

  “Salt of the ethereal planes, more like!”

  “No, he’s more the hardcore, brass-tacks kind. Amateur UFO investigator. Probably very thorough, very logical—all revolving about a center a little off whack.”

  “I don’t know, Ev. After all that’s happened, all that I’ve told you, you’re still not willing to open up at least a teensy-weensy possibility that there may be something to it.”

  Scarborough sighed. “Let’s not argue about it. I respect you deeply, and I’m sure that what you found in that hangar is very important. Let’s not jump to any conclusions though, okay?”

  “You’re so cute when you’re patronizing,” Marsha responded tartly.

  “Glad you think so.” His features softened as he looked at her. God, she could be infuriating, but ultimately he rather enjoyed it. She was certainly her own person—she was like Diane in that. She had a brain in that pretty head, no question of that. A little batty at times, but nonetheless, it kept him on his toes.

  “It is good to see you though, Ev, even though you can be the most infuriating son of a bitch this side of the Milky Way.”

  He had the sudden urge to reach out and hold her, but he checked it. ‘’’It’s good to see you too, Marsha. I can’t tell you ...”

  A sudden electrical charge hovered between them. It almost took Scarborough’s breath away as he looked into the warm brown of her eyes, and although they were feet apart, it felt as though her hot, generously female body engulfed his own.

  However, the sound of Walter Mashkin’s work boots clopping back up the steps interrupted this intimate moment. Marsha turned away, her face slightly flushed. Scarborough had the terrible feeling that he was blushing. He went to the refrigerator for another beer, turning away.

  “Folks, it’s a go. We got ourselves an eight-thirty appointment with an acquaintance of mine tonight.”

  Scarborough pulled the beer out and made a show of opening it clumsily. “That sounds all right, Walt. But exactly who are we seeing, and why?”

  A gleam appeared in Walter Mashkin’s deep-set eyes and a smile curled the corners of his mouth. “Well, you see, Evvie, it’s like this ...”

  Chapter 27

  The sun was gone, but the last rays of sunset still ridged the rugged landscape with soft shades of crimson and yellow light bluing skyward into darkness and stars. A desert breeze fluttered Marsha Manning’s scarf as she got out of her Lumina and waited for Scarborough and Mashkin to disembark. Standing on the sandy road fronting the beaten old house on the outskirts of nowhere, his nose picking up the telltale smell of garbage and a poor sewage system, Dr. Everett Scarborough wondered why the hell he’d allowed himself to be dragged along for this fool’s mission.

  To humor Walter Mashkin, of course, was the immediate answer. The man, after all, had been a godsend these past days, and promised to be just as much help in the future. What harm, he’d told himself, would it be to go and visit some creaky and deranged UFO-nut friend and listen to a crackpot story? After all, it wasn’t as though Scarborough had never done it before ... In his research he’d collected enough crazies to start up a franchise system of loonies. He’d even considered a book once about all-American eccentrics called MacNuts. He supposed he could deal with one more on his evening off. Besides, it would take his mind away from the impending date with Ed Myers tomorrow. And it would prevent him from having to be with Marsha Manning, alone.

  The house was an old and ramshackle adobe hacienda affair, scoured grey by the wind and cracked by the beating sun. Weeds and dead bushes poked up around the walls like dry, skeletal fingers from vegetable graves. The place was located well out past the sprouting Albuquerque suburbs, but it harkened back to the old days of the Dons of the Spanish who had settled and once ruled this wild land.

  “Wow. The Air Force really treats its own well,” he said, raising an eyebrow at Mashkin.

  “Oh, Jenkins got it cheap at a tax auction years ago. Really doesn’t have much to put in it, though I suppose if he ever takes up a few of the offers to sell off some of this acreage to developers, he’d have plenty of money. Still, he likes his isolation. Probably keep this place like this until he kicks the bucket. But come on, my friends, he’s waiting for us. It’s not often that Jenkins lets people come visit. He’ll probably even break out his tequila with the extra worms at the bottom.” Mashkin winked at the cringing Marsha and then gestured the party forward.

  The slender man with the Tennessee-accent led them down a pathway of broken flagstones, along which skittered the occasional lizard.

  “I just hope this visit is worth it,” said Marsha, hanging back away from the loping Mashkin, staring down in distaste at the reptiles and sorry state of the sprawling house’s yard.

  “You were the one who was so eager to come!”

  “I know, I know.” A moment of silence. “Did you get your message all right?”

  Scarborough nodded. He’d gotten through to David Myers with no problem whatsoever. ‘Tm meeting Myers at a McDonald’s just outside of Kirtland. He’s got some doctored papers for me and Mashkin. We’ll be the local plumbers, like I suggested. He’ll get us both in, no problem.”

  “Good. We’ve already established where I’ll be.”

  “Right. Backup. Officers’ Club, right?”

  The idea was that if—no, dammit, when—Scarborough found Diane—and Tim?—he’d hurry them over to Kirtland Central and there turn himself in. Once he knew that Diane was safe with trusted authorities as opposed to the CIA, he would allow himself to be arrested. Diane and Marsha could then attest that he was nowhere near MacKenzie’s house when Mac had been killed.

  She grinned. “I figured I might as well have a few drinks while I’m waiting for you.”

  “You sound like Camden.”

  “Who was supposed to show up, right?”

  “Yes. Maybe there’ll be a message on the phone machine when we get back. Anyway, we can’t wait for him, that’s for sure.”

  “No. Camden will have to get the story third-person.” Scarborough shook his head. “I dunno. That guy has a spooky way of showing up unannounced.”

  “I just had a thought—you don’t suppose that Camden could be involved with those people who shot your editor on the subway ... who were following you in Baltimore?”

  “No. I think I know Jake well enough by now. Take my word for it, Jake Camden works for nobody but himself.”

  “He seemed pretty out of it when he called me. Like I told you, that story of those guys that saved him really shook him up.”

  “Look, Marsha, let’s just take things one step at a time. For right now, I’m just concentrating on getting my daughter freed. Okay.”

  Marsha executed a mock-salute. “Yes sir!”

  Walter Mashkin reached the end of the gnarly path and stepped up onto a dirt
y stone porch. He knocked upon a wooden door as Scarborough and Manning hung back to give him and his friend some space. The knocks echoed hollowly through the big house.

  “He is home, isn’t he Walt?” said Scarborough, after a few minutes of knocking.

  “Shee—it. Todd Jenkins hardly goes nowhere. Oh yes, he’s home. We just gotta raise him, that’s all!”

  Walter Mashkin commenced knocking some more.

  Suddenly, from the shadows past the porch, a click sounded: a rifle bolt-action.

  Scarborough jumped despite himself. Manning grabbed his arm and squeezed.

  “Can’t you assholes read the goddamned sign!” barked a hoarse, raspy voice. “No soliciting! Now get your butts offa my land.”

  Mashkin stepped off the porch, his face breaking into a broad grin in the dying light. “Todd! Yo! We ain’t tryin’ to sell you nothin’, you asshole! It’s just me, Mash, right on time!”

  “What, Mashkin! Walter!”

  Scarborough noted with relief the rifle barrel lowering as a stooped, aging man with a mane of wild white hair strode into the light, staring at them through Coke-bottle glasses. “Amigo! Shit, I forget you were hauling your sorry ass my way tonight.” He stopped, casually and warily waving the rifle at Scarborough and Manning. “So, who are these jokers?”

  “Tarnation, Jenks. I told you. I got myself some guests. This here is Marsha Manning, and we brung along her pal—uhm ... Doug Adams.” It had been decided in the car that it was best to give Scarborough another identity for the time being.

  Marsha lifted a hand to shake Jenkins’s hand, but the man just stared at her like she was crazy. “Oh yeah.”

  “Well, you shithead, aren’t you gonna ask us in! You and Marsha have got some stuff to talk about!”

  “We do?”

  “Yeah!” said Mashkin, grinning over at Scarborough. “The Roswell saucer crash! 1947!”

  “You interested in hearing about that, Miss Manning?”

  “I most certainly am.”

  Jenkins nodded. “In that case, I hope you got lots of room in your ears, because I’m going to fill them mighty full!”

  The interior of the Spanish-style hacienda was large and drafty, except for the smaller rooms in the back where Todd Jenkins led them. The place smelled slightly off, in the way that bachelors’ quarters tended to get, only this house had a peculiar desert quality, as though rattlesnakes or lizards lived off in the corners somewhere (all with definite whiskey habits). Against a wall were stacks and stacks of books, some in cardboard boxes, some not. Against another wall were piles of old magazines. Rounding out this ramshackle library were loads of old newspapers. Apparently, Todd Jenkins threw absolutely nothing out.

  He seated them at a long cracked and warped table and then, at Mashkin’s request, went off to get some beers.

  “Todd Jenkins is a retired captain of the United States Air Force,” said Mashkin, looking terribly pleased with himself and remarkably comfortable in this strange pigsty desert mansion.

  “So you said before,” Scarborough remarked, sitting uneasily in an ancient and creaky chair.

  “You just wait, Ev. He’s got a story that’s gonna change your life!”

  “We’ll see.” He turned to Marsha Manning, who to his chagrin looked extremely intrigued. For his own part, Scarborough felt decidedly uneasy. He wished now that he had been selfish, had just said no to Walter Mashkin’s wish that they meet this guy. He should have just stayed home and gone to bed early. Tomorrow was an absolutely vital day. What the hell was he doing spending the night before with a certified UFOol, ready to listen to some crack-brained, hoary old tale of aliens and flying saucers?

  But even as these angry, knee-jerk thoughts rushed through his head, he caught himself up and told himself to cool it. This was the old Scarborough’s attitude. He’d changed now, hadn’t he? Well, somewhat, anyway. Enough to at least give some time to listen tonight. He owed at least that much to Mashkin. And if Marsha Manning wanted to be here, and wanted Scarborough here with her—yes, he owed that to her as well.

  So sit still, you uptight asshole, he told the old Dr. Everett Scarborough; shut up and listen awhile!

  When Jenkins came back he was carrying a six-pack of Dos Equus beer. He opened four, and passed three around dutifully, his mop of white hair flopping into his face as he did so.

  Walter Mashkin toasted the air, and they all took a ceremonial sip.

  “So then,” Jenkins growled. “Walt here tells me, miss, that you’ve something real interesting on Wright-Patterson.”

  Marsha nodded and licked her lips tentatively. “Yes, sir. That’s quite true.” She took a nervous sip.

  A moment of awkward silence hovered.

  “Dammit, go ahead and tell Jenks what you told me, Marsha! He ain’t gonna bite!”

  Marsha cleared her throat and began. “You have to understand, Captain Jenkins, that I’m a specialist in computers. That’s how I found out about the entry concerning the Roswell material. That’s how I got a chance to go in and take a look at it. “

  Jenkins’s eyes started glittering. His head started to nod like a dashboard doll. He seemed to be focusing on every word that Marsha Manning said, drinking it all in hungrily.

  While Scarborough listened to Marsha’s tale again, he sipped at his beer. He had to admit, this was pretty convincing stuff; nonetheless, his mind worked overtime, out of habit, looking for a logical explanation.

  When she was finished, Jenkins swept thick stubby fingers through his white mane of hair, opened another Dos Equus, took a long drink, clopped it down on the table, and sighed. “Those mother fuckers.”

  “Pardon me?” said Marsha clearly a little taken aback.

  “Marsha,” said Mashkin, grabbing himself the last of the beers. “You gotta understand. The United States Armed Forces put this man here through some real hell.”

  “War is hell, isn’t it,” piped up Scarborough.

  “I’ll take any kind of war, any day, other than what those assholes did to me!” growled Jenkins. He took a furious glug of beer and glared with red eyes at Scarborough. “And all because I was just trying to tell people the truth!” He turned a gentler gaze upon Marsha. “Ma’am, I’ve been waiting over forty years to hear those words from someone like you. Hell, they wouldn’t let me within spitting distance of Wright-Patterson! And you—you just brought it all home to me like a balm from Gilead.”

  “See!” whooped Walter Mashkin. “What I tell ya, Jenks!

  You’re vindicated. I can feel a whole ‘nother article coming on about you, buddy!”

  “Whoa there, just a minute,” said Scarborough. “This doesn’t prove anything.”

  “Give it a minute, Ev,” said Mashkin. “I told you, it was Jenks’s story I brought you out to hear. He just got all excited over hearing about Mashkin’s little escapade, that’s all. Ain’t that right, Jenks?”

  “Excited? That’s hardly the word. But I guess I do owe you my story now, so here goes.”

  The man scratched his crotch, drank some beer, and started.

  “You have to understand, I was a career officer. Maybe you wouldn’t understand, you not being in the service, sir—but I think the lady would. I had my name signed in blood even before the Nips bombed Pearl Harbor. I flew bombers in World War II in both theaters. I didn’t know nothing else-and I sure can feel for those poor fuckers who come back from Nam with fried brains and their thumbs up their asses, cause once you get in the Force, it’s damned hard to get out gracefully. Am I right, Lieutenant?”

  Marsha Manning nodded glumly.

  “Yeah. So I’m in for the long-term, you know. I’m stationed over at Roswell Army Base. It’s 1947. Lot of my buddies went on to college with the GI Bill. Lot of ‘em didn’t make it out of WWII alive. Me, I was a lifer, and I went where they told me to go, and if they told me to fart, I asked how loud. So it’s July 1947, and’ it’s a boring day like all the rest, and suddenly a crew of us get some real strange orders. Seems as thoug
h something real strange buzzed the area the day before. Seems as though something big crashed about twenty, thirty miles away in some ranchers’ range.

  “Well, if you know anything about UFOs, you know that 1947 was the year that people started seeing the things a lot. Me, I figured it was the Hiroshima heebie-jeebies and didn’t take much account about it. But we get these orders, like I say, to take a couple trucks over to this rancher’s fields and have a look.”

  “You were there,” said Marsha excitedly. “You were there at the Roswell crash.”

  Scarborough listened attentively, but frankly, he had heard so many different stories about that event (most of them improvable, some eventually exposed as outright lies) that he had to be doubtful. It had happened over forty years ago, after all—memory tended to start warping after about five minutes.

  “That’s right. Damnedest thing you ever saw. This rancher, name of Brazel, he was just standing there, not knowing what to do, and I don’t blame him. There wasn’t much to do, and so he just called in the sheriff who did all he could do, which was to call up the government, who sent in the military. Things were kinda crazy, and the military would sure have handled things different if they knew what they had on their hands. The top guys anyway. Sheesh, what a mess. Man, I took a look at what was there, and suddenly this great big black line came diving down into my life, making everything up to that time, Before Roswell, and everything that followed, After Roswell. B.R. and A.R. Kind of like B.C. and A.D. you know?”

  “Jenks would you quit your goddamn hemming and hawing and get on with the gol-darned story!” Mashkin said.

  “Settle down, Mashkin. For Christ sakes, it’s my story. I can tell it any which way I care to.” He took a swig of beer and glared at Mashkin.

  “That’s quite all right, Mr. Jenkins,” said Marsha Manning, obviously just as enraptured with the story as ever. “We’re in no hurry.”

  Jenkins scratched some dead skin off his mottled red nose and then banged his bottle on the table. Beer foam spumed up and oozed onto the gouged wood. “A fucking flying saucer,” he said, the remembered awe and wonders till etched indelibly on his face. “A crashed-down flying saucer just ripped to shreds. And that ain’t all, let me tell you.” His mouth worked without words for a moment, as though he were having difficulty pushing them out. “Bodies. Must have been maybe five or six bodies, too.”