The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy

by David Bischoff

Although Jake Camden did not report on the story, he was a news junkie, so he well knew the story of William Buckley. He cringed inside at the memory, the fear and paranoia making a return visit to his spine, running up and down with needle-sharp cleats.

  Buckley was the head operative for the CIA in Beirut during the times of its greatest travail. In 1984, Buckley was kidnapped by a radical Moslem group known as Hezbollah. Soon, the CIA began to receive videotapes of the progress made upon William Buckley. For although Buckley was a highly trained operative, fully prepared for what would happen to him in the eventuality of a hostage situation, the Hezbollah brought in an infamous and quite amoral doctor who subjected him to a battery of drugs that practically wiped out his personality. By the time the fourth or fifth tape came, depicting scenes of outrageous torture, Buckley clearly had. not only spilled his guts to the Hezbollah, disgorging a treasure trove of classified secrets, but he was calling for both the withdrawal of American troops from Beirut and the end of American intercession in Lebanon.

  William Buckley had not merely been brainwashed. His grey matter had been hung out on a line to bake and dry, and then crushed to fit the mold his inhuman captors desired.

  “Yes,” said Camden, suddenly feeling meek. “I’m familiar with those tapes.”

  “Good. Because you should know that as a doctor whose specialty is brain chemistry and behavioral modification, among other pertinent subjects, we are not only fully familiar with that very effective methodology employed by Dr. al Abub. We have our own methods, far more effective ... And sometimes not quite as subtle.

  “You see, Mr. Camden. The mysteries of the mind are slowly being unlocked. And I am one of those privileged to fully be able to delve into such matters unchecked, due to my placement in this particular system. I have discovered wonderful and terrible things ... but the search continues.”

  A kind of glittery self-absorption took hold of Dr. Julia Cunningham’s eyes, as though she’d just received an injection herself and was feeling a rush. She examined the needle, squeezing out the air bubbles in a tiny jet of fluid. She turned to Camden.

  “I have the distinct feeling that you are going to prove to be a most interesting and worthwhile subject, Jake Camden.”

  As she stepped toward him, the hypodermic held out before her like the stinger in the tail of a black-widow spider, Jake Camden looked at her face, and recognized what he saw there, the look that usually made him run far, far away from a woman.

  The look of sadistic pleasure.

  Now, of course, he couldn’t run anywhere.

  Jake had the distinct feeling that this was more than just a career or a challenge of curiosity into the workings of a human being’s mind.

  Jake Camden had the distinct feeling that Dr. Julia Cunningham was enjoying this.

  Scarborough came down from above her, craning down with the smoothness of intuitive motion, and slid inside her with astonishing ease ... Ease and rightness, as though their angles were part of a greater whole, come together for the first time.

  When he was fully inside her, she lifted her head back and crooned a soft murmur. “Yes, Everett. Yes.”

  He positioned his hands to either side of her and began the timeless and eternal stroking, heaven’s slide, and her aroma enveloping him in sensory ecstasy.

  “Yes, Everett. Fuck me. Fuck me!”

  It took him with sudden surprise. One instant he was in control, the next her velvet grip tightened in his most vulnerable spot, triggering inevitability. The weeks of fear and panic, of uncertainty and tension, all collected in one mighty heave, and rushed out in a trembling, shaking explosion of release. Quivering, he drained it all into her with a groan of pleasure, abandon, and disappointment. It seemed to go on forever, this liquid rush, and for a moment his consciousness threatened to fade away.

  Cherry blossoms!

  He awoke from a half-faint, blinking at her side as she stroked his hot forehead, whispering soft nothings.

  Cherry blossoms?

  Why had he thought of cherry blossoms?

  And then, suddenly he was Dr. Everett Scarborough again—lying with a woman whom he knew he had disappointed. The phrase “premature ejaculation” boomed at the back of his mind like an accusation.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Sorry? Whatever for?”

  “Well, I didn’t exactly last.”

  “Don’t ruin it. It was lovely. It was beautiful. Please don’t ruin it.”

  “I usually last more than a few seconds.”

  “What do you think this is, Ev?” There was scorn and amusement and caring all mixed up in her voice. “An Olympic event?”

  “No. I just wanted to give you something more than a couple grunting seconds.”

  “Ev, Ev, Ev.” She softly kissed his forehead and he felt his tension loosening again as he lay between her breasts. “You poor, sick little boy.”

  “Oh. Thanks loads.”

  “Don’t be silly. You gave me yourself. You really did. I didn’t want a stud, I wanted you.”

  “Well, I can be a stud. I really can.”

  “The male ego always astounds me. So, are you feeling better?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Don’t pout so. It doesn’t become you.”

  “Maybe you were just too much of a woman for me.”

  “Yes. That must be it. Like no other woman you’ve ever had before.”

  “Hmm, Well, there was this divorcee in Cleveland once who—” He was cut off by the pillow slamming into his face.

  They both laughed, and in a way it was as much a release as what had happened just before.

  When they came up for air, they were in each other’s arms again, quietly whispering, lovers again.

  “Really. That was incredible. For me, anyway,” he said.

  “It was very special for me, too.”

  “God. I hate that word. Sounds like a sale at K-Mart!”

  “Attention, K-Mart shoppers! Dr. Everett Scarborough has just had an orgasm!”

  “And Lieutenant Marsha Manning hasn’t!”

  “I felt a little tingle or two.”

  “Oh thanks. More praise for the performance.”

  “Really, you worry too much. Have you ever thought that a gal might take such a short, passionate, and explosive reaction to her charms as a compliment?”

  “Hmmm. No, I guess not.”

  “Well, I did.”

  “You are a sweetheart.”

  “Ego soothed?”

  “Healed. Redeemed. Resurrected on the third day and ascended into heaven.”

  “Good. Let me show you something then.”

  She kissed him firmly and soundly on the lips, and then slowly traced the outline of his jaw with her tongue. She nibbled expertly at his ear, and he began to stroke her back in the way of returning the favor.

  “No,” she said, rearing back and shaking her hair, her breasts pendulous yet firm before him. “I don’t want you to move. I don’t want you to stir a muscle unless you can’t help it. This is for you, Ev. All for you.” She chuckled throatily, and then buried her mouth in his chest hair. She tongued his nipples hard, and then dreamily drifted down his abdomen, her hair tickling his skin, expert fingers performing little curlicue dances of delight.

  This tactile sensory cascade comingled with the smell of her, the fierce and abandoned and yet intelligent sexuality that had been implicit and yet so far a subtle part of Marsha Manning, was almost more than Everett Scarborough could stand. He drew in air, expulsed it with a gasp. With perfect timing she descended to his thighs and began licking upwards.

  Scarborough suddenly realized what she intended to try to do. “Marsha,” he said. “Really, I think I need more time. I mean, ego aside, I am fifty years old!”

  “Shh! I want you to be quiet, Scarborough. Just relax. Enjoy. I’ll show you ...”

  He let his head fall back into the pillow, a little doubtful, but willing to go along for the try. God knew the effort would certainly take his mind off things
like nightmares, suspense, and tension—at least of the dreadful, non-erotic sort.

  Marsha crept up his legs slyly and knowingly, and then leaned down and kissed his genitals, as though in a friendly, how-do-you-do kind of way. She let her hair gently drift over his crotch, drawing sweet and subtle sensations, and kissed the perimeter as though mapping out her territory. After long, drawn-out moments of delicious and surprising touches, her lips lowered and gently took his glans between them, teasing it with her tongue.

  Then she took the entirety of his limp shaft in her mouth and grew totally still.

  Scarborough kept waiting for her to do something. Suck, stroke, kiss, anything.

  But she stayed totally still, and he suddenly realized that he was holding his breath. Her mouth was around him, and he could feel its firmness and the wet of the saliva, but nothing more.

  Then, so slightly that he hardly noticed, she began to move. With infinite care and patience, she started a soft but insistent back-and-forth motion, her wet mouth making it almost frictionless—but not quite. Sensation began to bloom in Scarborough’s groin. A deep, throbbing need, drawn from the well of his soul like cool dark water, bubbling up toward this expert and loving mouth.

  She drew him out, lifting her head back in exultation as she detected the change.

  With great surprise and more than a little pleasure, Scarborough realized that his penis was slowly growing in her mouth. She mumbled praise and amusement as she started a stronger stroke, beginning to massage his testicles in expert counterpoint.

  “Jesus,” he said. “I don’t believe it.”

  Marsha giggled.

  “Better use it while I’ve got it.”

  She came up for air. “Quiet, dear. I’m enjoying myself.”

  She licked him playfully and then proceeded to pleasure the hell out of him.

  Just before he could bear it no longer, just before he felt as though all of his insides were going to come blasting out, she stopped.

  “Okay. Okay, Ev. I think we can assume you’re hard enough now.”

  She straddled him and slipped her sex down on him like a fleshy glove. She gasped and groaned as he entered her and then began to move up and down, taking her own pleasure.

  For his own part, Scarborough was feeling rather befuddled and benumbed—and he realized that he was at the point where most of the sensation had been milked from his nerves. Therefore, he could take his attention away from his own concern of a premature end to this startling session and get lost in Marsha’s enjoyment.

  She moved on him as though his penis was her own private plaything, letting it stroke the exact portions of her interior that pleased her, teasing herself and then thrusting hard and harder, her breasts jiggling before him, growing sweaty and taut. Her intensity was amazing as she worked her way into a wild frenzy, desperately reaching up and up for fulfillment.

  When it came, it was like a thunderous breaking wave.

  “Everett!” she gasped, arching her back so far that he thought she was going to fall away from him.

  Just as suddenly, she was back on top of him, her crotch trying to merge into his. She bucked and trembled, she groaned and she spasmed as though a high voltage wire was rammed inside her and not just a rod of flesh. She quivered and shook for what seemed an endless time, and when she was through, Everett Scarborough realized that he had come, too; only his orgasm had been totally lost and consumed by the power and dominance of hers.

  She collapsed against him, perspiring, breaths coming jaggedly. They lay together in a pool of scent and cooling heat and release, quietly reveling in the afterglow.

  “Wow,” she whispered, nuzzling her nose against his arm.

  “Wow,” he returned.

  “I can’t stop thinking about what Walter said. About electricity.”

  “Hmmm. You know, Mac said that too. I just thought you rubbed me the wrong way.”

  “Just think. We could have been rubbing each other all that time ...”

  “No. This was the right time, Marsha.”

  “I know.”

  “I had to reach out for you. I had to ... realize that I’m not alone. And you showed me. Thank you.”

  “Welcome, Dr. Scarborough,” she cooed softly into his ear. “You’re very, very welcome. And by the way, if in the morning you run across any pieces of my brain lying about—on the floor, between the sheets—would you please return them? I need all of them.”

  “How will I know they’re yours and not mine?”

  “They’ll have ‘Everett Scarborough is the most wonderful man!’ written all over them.”

  “Like I said, how will I know they’re yours and not mine?”

  She punched him lightly on the arm. “You silly creature.”

  He smiled and drew her close, and together they drifted off into a safe, nightmareless sleep.

  Chapter 31

  Everett Scarborough sat in the cushioned plastic booth, leaning over his cooling cup of coffee and his untouched Egg McMuffin, wondering why he’d allowed Ed Myers to set the meeting place at a McDonald’s Restaurant, of all places. Scarborough abhorred McDonald’s and all its hamburgerized ilk, with their teeth-rotting treacle-greased garbage food. Usually, he wouldn’t be caught dead in such a place. But Myers was right, of course. It would be easy to find; it would be inconspicuous because of its banality. And, of course, it was just a couple of miles from the gates at Kirtland Air Force Base.

  Most of the breakfast traffic was gone now, and a young man swabbed the floor with a mop, while an old lady put a fresh tray in a cash register. The two extreme levels of minimum wage, thought Scarborough, both happy with the extra cash while Roy Kroc’s corporation sucked in the big numbers, preying on the gustatory weakness of children and the cramped time of adults.

  Scarborough sipped at his coffee and cringed. Awful. He looked at his watch.

  Nine-twenty.

  Myers had said he’d be there between nine-fifteen and nine-thirty, which meant that he had another ten minutes to go. But for some reason, Scarborough had a sense of ill-ease sitting on his stomach, preventing him from eating the congealing breakfast or drinking much more of the turgid coffee.

  “Yep,” a voice hollered in his ear. “I’ll say one thing about these places. They keep their urinals clean enough to piddle in!”

  An overalled body plumped down across from him: Walter Mashkin in his grubby work gear. He attacked his Big Breakfast of pancakes, eggs, bacon, sausage, and biscuit with relish.

  Scarborough really couldn’t complain. He wore almost exactly the same outfit. Grey, smudged overalls. Checked flannels. Scuffed work boots. Even a tattered black baseball hat, stitched with the letters: Mashkin’s Plumbing. This, after all, was to be Everett Scarborough’s disguise today. That was the plan, anyway: Myers would get them on base as a couple of expert plumbers come to work on a troublesome latrine. It had been Scarborough’s idea and Myers had lapped it up immediately as being perfect. And Scarborough had to admit, these grubby clothes certainly were the final touch to a complete overhaul in his looks. Yes, when Marsha Manning had gotten a load of him this morning, she’d laughed—but she too had to admit: it was perfect. Just perfect.

  Marsha. The only pleasant thought in his mind. She lingered with him now like a beautiful melody. The memory of last night was a quiet and astonishing joy. Marsha—

  “So where’s the spook?” Mashkin asked through a mouthful of food.

  “Shhh! Walter,” said Scarborough in a low voice, “this is a public area!”

  “Oh, sorry. Still and all, it’s pretty empty in here. Nobody cares much. Besides, how many people know that ‘spook’ means ‘CIA agent’?”

  “Walter!”

  “Whoops. Sorry.” But Mashkin shrugged in a blasé way, as though to prove that this was just another no-hum day in the life of Walter Mashkin, Top UFO Investigator and Adventurer Extraordinaire. Actually, Scarborough could see now that his loudness and exaggerated movements probably meant that the man was
nervous as hell, but trying to act cool and macho about the whole thing and not succeeding very well. “It’s just that the guy said he’d be here at 9:15 AM.”

  “Or by 9:30. Don’t worry. He’ll be here.”

  Or Scarborough hoped so, anyway. His stomach did a nasty’ little flip as he watched a dollop of maple syrup splash down onto Mashkin’s plastic tray. He picked up the coffee and drank some, turning away, turning his thoughts back to Marsha to keep his own form of nervous jitters in check.

  Last night had been the single best time he’d ever spent with a woman, sexually anyway. Scarborough didn’t know—maybe it had just been his emotional need coupled with the tension that they’d both felt that made it so explosive. But it was more than that, surely—they had blended together so well. It had been so sweet, so fulfilling, so exciting.

  Marsha Manning, of course, had her own agenda this morning. Support, she called it. Flanking support. A trip on her own to Kirtland, to scope out the territory, and to create a safe harbor if they needed it. They’d decided it should be the Officers’ Club, “That way,” Mashkin had said, “if we get holed up for a time, at least we can wet our whistles!”

  Ed Myers walked through the doors of the McDonald’s at exactly 9:29.

  He was wearing a light blue poplin jacket, a red tie loosely knotted around a white shirt, and well-shined loafers. He looked good, relaxed, and tan, with only a trace of worry wrinkles detectable when he took his sunglasses off to look around the room.

  “Ed!” called Scarborough, waving. “Ed, over here!”

  Myers smiled, essayed a quick salute, and strode over to them. Scarborough stood up, and when Myers offered his hand, he couldn’t help giving him a hug.

  “My goodness. Is that a plumber’s helper in your pocket or are you just happy to see me!” said Myers, ever the blithe joker.

  “It’s great to see you, Ed. Are you kidding me! Oh, and this is Walter Mashkin.”

  The two shook hands.

  “Are you two ready for a little plumbing expedition?”

  “If you think it will be fruitful, Ed.”

  Myers looked around with a professional assaying glance. “I think maybe we’d better discuss that outside, hmm?”