The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy

by David Bischoff

  For that’s exactly what he had been all along. From the very beginning.

  A pawn. A victim. Used to spread their poisonous disinformation. A fool. Oh, how the mighty fall! Oh, how the proud and vainglorious tumble!

  They’d tried to take him in New York, on the subway when he’d met with Cindy Clinton. However, his mysterious benefactors had appeared, shot Cindy, and urged him to flee.

  He’d fled.

  He’d fled on an odyssey that had taken him down to Baltimore, where he’d interviewed a woman who had given him the clue he’d needed to one of the individuals behind this madness: Dr. Julia Cunningham. He’d fled, but he’d been followed, he knew, and so he continued to travel.

  Finally, he’d contacted Ed Myers, whom he thought he could trust, because of a deep debt that Myers owed him because of the aid Scarborough had given his druggy son. He’d no idea that Brian Richards, Executive Editor, had put the screws on Myers, forcing him to betray his friend.

  Myers told him to come to Kirtland Air Force Base, in New Mexico.

  “Funny how it worked out,” said Marsha. She put a big plate of breakfast before him, along with freshly buttered slices of wheat toast. “A kind of discordant serendipity.”

  “Synchronicity, you mean,” said Scarborough, digging into the fried potatoes after putting plenty of salt and pepper on them. “And I assume that you are referring to the way you discovered the remains of the crashed saucer in the Wright-Patterson storage area.”

  “Well, I did look pretty hard. I didn’t exactly stumble on it.”

  “Oh yes, you and your immense computer capabilities. “ “Alas, to no avail in a Winnebago.”

  “We’ve got money. Maybe we’ll buy you a laptop.”

  “Right. At the local 7-Eleven.”

  “There are 7-Elevens in Arizona?”

  “Aren’t there 7-Elevens everywhere?”

  “Not in Russia.”

  “Maybe that’s been their economic problem.”

  “I don’t know. Can’t imagine borscht slurpees.”

  Marsha went back to the kitchenette, and used a spatula to hoist her own eggs from the frying pan. She placed them on a plate, added bacon, sausage, and home fries, then brought the result back to the table to eat with Scarborough.

  “I can’t help remembering how spooky it all was.”

  “It certainly was a story that got Mashkin all worked up.”

  “It got me worked up! It would get anyone worked up, I should think! Think about it! The remains of a vessel made on another planet! Crashed in New Mexico!”

  Roswell, New Mexico, to be exact—1947. Walter K. Mashkin had taken them to see a retired Air Force guy who’d actually seen the saucer after it had crashed.

  Mashkin had been the guy who had written to Mac MacKenzie from Albuquerque, New Mexico, concerning the disappearance of Harry Reynolds, a UFO enthusiast who had broadcast to his listeners via shortwave radio from Dubuque, Iowa, alerting Mac—and subsequently Scarborough—to the fact that something weird might be going on in Iowa. A fact that had precipitated MacKenzie’s investigation—and thus, this whole sorry mess.

  Mashkin was a plumber. Scarborough had contacted him, and he’d agreed to let them meet there at his house. In fact, he offered to let them stay there—and to help them in whatever way he could.

  Myers had said that Diane was being kept in a section of Kirtland Air Force Base, some miles from Albuquerque. Since no one as yet realized that Marsha Manning was helping Scarborough, she’d arranged to do some computer consulting work on the base. The plan was for her to help Scarborough get Diane out of the hands of the renegade government forces and then off the base.

  However, that was not to be.

  Diane was not on the base. Myers had lied. It was a trap, concocted by Brian Richards to lure Scarborough. Mashkin was killed in his attempt to escape, and Scarborough was carted off for his reckoning with none other than Julia Cunningham, biochemical architect of Project White Book.

  Project White Book.

  Certainly the most monstrous atrocity to be visited upon the citizens of the United States of America.

  Scarborough and Manning ate in silence for a moment as Scarborough thought about Project White Book. He hadn’t told Marsha the whole story yet, and come to think of it, this would be a good opportunity while Camden was outside.

  Thinking they had him under control, Richards and Cunningham had pretty much revealed the nature of White Book and Black Book to him. Then, Richards had left for business in Washington, leaving him to Julia Cunningham’s able hands.

  However, Richards had clearly depended too much upon his blackmail of Myers. And Myers had apparently balked. They’d imprisoned Camden as well… imprisoned him and done unspeakable things to him. Myers had found him, freed him—and then had gone to release Scarborough.

  It had cost him his life.

  Cunningham and two other agents had been killed in the scuffle, but Scarborough had been liberated. Earlier, Manning, wondering why she hadn’t heard from them, had driven to the buildings where they were kept. She arrived in time to intercept them, and carry them off the base.

  However, they had been intercepted by the Others.

  And here they were now, with only a Winnebago, some money, and the promise that the Others would contact them soon.

  “Marsha, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something,” said Scarborough.

  “Oh?” she said through a mouthful of eggs and toast.

  “Yes. It appears that we are involved in something far more insidious than I’d first thought.”

  Manning’s eyes widened. “Worse than a quasigovernmental conspiracy to suppress the fact that there are aliens among us on Earth?”

  “Well, it’s not exactly government, you see.”

  “What about Richards? And Colonel Dolan?”

  “Government people are involved, certainly—but not with the knowledge of other government officials or agencies. That’s just it-they’ve been using the government, but they are not the government.”

  “Who?”

  “The Editors. The Publishers.”

  “The people you’ve been talking about...”

  “The Editors are apparently the executive branch, so to speak—the operatives for the Publishers.”

  “And who are these Publishers.”

  “Well, they’re the orchestrators of this conspiracy... and they’ve apparently been so from the very beginning.

  “But what—”

  “Project White Book.”

  “White Book, yes... and Black Book?”

  “You got it. Blue Book was just a smoke screen. And I was part of the smoke. Investigations of UFO sightings. Logical conclusions. Determination: There are no such things as alien beings buzzing the country in flying saucers.

  “And White Book is the cover-up operation.”

  “Yes. As both you and I know, there is evidence that there are aliens—”

  “Evidence? We know that for certain.”

  “Well, we don’t really know for certain... but I’ll concede there is a mighty strong reason to believe this is the way it is. The Publishers and the government allies believe so, anyway. I learned that White Book is indeed what we suspected: a highly scientific disinformation campaign.”

  “Yes! We’d suspected that! To discredit the aliens entirely. To make their operations seem so wild and bizarre as to cause institutions, and the general intelligent public, to believe they could not possibly be happening. “

  “And if there was belief, to give the aliens a bad rep. Yes, it was the White Book operation happening on that Iowa farm. They apparently kidnapped individuals they knew would spread the news in effective fashion...”

  “Like Schroeder?”

  “Perhaps... But they used this to create a ‘myth’ amongst the population.”

  “Yes. No wonder the aliens are operating in such a strange way. It’s a wonder they’re bothering to stay around in the first place.”

 
; “They must have their reasons—”

  “—and reasons for kidnapping Diane?”

  “That is going to take some explanation!” said Scarborough indignantly.

  “But Black Book... I was the one who heard about Black Book in Colonel Dolan’s office…”

  “Yes. Black Book is apparently the operation meant to prevent the aliens from doing whatever it is they want to do!”

  “But why?”

  “I believe that has a great deal to do with the nature of the Publishers. I’m not exactly sure at this point what that is... but I mean to find out. “

  “Let me know when you do. In the meantime, we’ve got to find Diane, clear our names… and finish breakfast.”

  Scarborough nodded. “Hmm... You were right. I did need this. “

  They were just finishing up when Camden came back in.

  “Hey! Smells good.”

  “Just a plain old breakfast,” said Marsha quietly. She clearly didn’t know quite how to deal with this unruly, rheumy unpredictable character—and Scarborough couldn’t blame her. He didn’t know quite how to deal with Camden either.

  “I don’t suppose you saw a typewriter around here?”

  “Right,” said Marsha. “They’re really going to leave a typewriter so that you can write for the National Intruder!”

  “No more Intruder. Uh-uh. I got bigger fish to fry.” Camden went to a bank of drawers and began opening and rummaging through them. “So what are we going to do, guys? We got this Winnebago. Should we explore this area first? Those guys must have left us here for some reason!”

  “Where do you figure we are?”

  “Well, we’re not as close to Prescott as those guys seemed to think. Phoenix is probably closer. There’s cactus out there, and there aren’t many cactus in Prescott that I know of. We’re in high desert, not low desert.”

  “But they mentioned Prescott. Maybe we should explore Prescott first,” suggested Marsha.

  Scarborough thought about this a moment. “Well, we’re a lot less likely to run into problems in Prescott than in Phoenix, that’s for sure! Might as well start where we are. Those guys just want us to wait around, but I refuse.”

  “We will have to be a little careful,” Marsha said. “On the other hand, they wouldn’t have given us wheels if they didn’t want us to travel. “

  “You bet, kiddo. Hey darlin’. You gonna fix me up some breakfast or what?”

  “You can’t fix your own breakfast?”

  “Seems like you made a nice one for the doc. Why not me? I’ll do the honors tomorrow. “

  Marsha sighed. “Oh well. I’m pretty much finished anyway. Might as well pitch in toward a harmonious community.”

  “That’s the spirit!” said Camden, still busy at the drawers.

  Scarborough, however, was deep in reverie. His thoughts about the past had dredged up deep and bitter feelings, and now, as he stared down at his unfinished breakfast, the memories bubbled up from deep within him.

  Justine, falling down the bowed wall of Hoover Dam, bumping and bleeding toward death…

  Diane’s silk Italian scarf, hanging on a bush in that old quarry, abandoned...

  The subway train, smashing over his editor, Cindy Clinton—

  “Well what do we have here?” Camden’s voice was almost unnoticed.

  The taste of the National Bohemian beer and crab cakes in Elaine Strazinski’s Baltimore home, her amazing story...

  The smell of the harsh drugs and blood, spilled by the body of Dr. Julia Cunningham…

  The crippled Winnebago by the side of the road and the man, waving for help...

  “Okay,” said Marsha. “I’ll bite. What have you found?”

  Camden hoisted up two tan cases from a drawer. “Can you believe it? Two, count ‘em, two laptop computers.”

  Marsha stared. “My God! They’re Zenith Supersports!”

  “That’s right, honey. Lightweight and 40 megabyte hard disk!”

  “Internal modem?”

  “Standard issue, I think,” said Camden. “Let’s see.” He turned one on, let the backlit screen come alive, and then danced his fingers over the keyboard. “Yep. At least this one is. I do believe that this baby’s got your name on it, Marsha Manning.”

  Marsha wiped her hands on a towel and went to the machine. She played with the keyboard a few moments. “Incredible. 2400 baud, too!” She turned to Scarborough. “Do you realize what this means?”

  “Our benefactors were generous indeed.”

  “Yes, but more than that—it means I can try to access government computers, other computer systems… it gives us an incredibly potent tool.”

  Scarborough perked up. She was right. After all, it was Marsha’s computer work that had led them to discover the location of the remains of that crashed saucer in Wright-Patterson storage.

  “And,” said Camden, “it’s got WordPerfect 4.2 on the hard drive! A word processing program I actually know... Well, sort of... Folks... we’re talking Journal here! I can not only work on my article, I can start writing my book! Fate! It must be! The ETs must want Jake Camden’s literary-journalistic efforts as testimony to the events here!”

  “Maybe they just figure it will keep you out of trouble, Jake,” suggested Scarborough.

  “Maybe that, too!” said Jake. “Great! I can even plug the thing in here. This is going to be terrific!”

  “I’m going to have to find a phone line,” said Marsha, equally pleased. “But I’m sure we’ll figure out something.”

  “How do you know that one of those isn’t supposed to be for me?” said Scarborough, less sanguine about the whole thing in his present state of mind.

  “Oh, yeah, right,” said Camden. “They’re going to want the big skeptic to write his version!”

  “No, really,” said Marsha thoughtfully, “has it ever occurred to you-that could be the reason for them doing all this to you, Everett! They want you to be the one!”

  “The one what?”

  “The one to let the world know that they exist! I mean, after all your years of work against the very idea of their existence… you’d be the natural one to let the news out. People would pay attention! The public as well as the government—and most important of all, scientists! If they wanted to explain the science behind their background, their activities—couldn’t they do it through you? Couldn’t you be the explicator?”

  Scarborough shook his head. “That doesn’t explain all this craziness. Why would they kidnap my daughter if they wanted just that, for God’s sake? Why set me up?”

  And what about all the strange hypotheses in Julia Cunningham’s notes? he wondered.

  “That’s just something you’re going to have to ask them, I guess.”

  “And I just bet you’re looking forward to that, aren’t you, Scarb?”

  Everett Scarborough’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, Jake. I most certainly am!”

  Chapter 4

  The first guard she took out with her knife.

  In practiced commando style, she came up from behind him silent as a cat, clamped a hand over his mouth, and then swiftly sliced tensile steel through his carotid artery.

  The man’s cry had been muffled by her practiced grip and she’d sliced deeply enough to sever his vocal chords as well. There was only a gurgling gasp as the blood bubbled out through the new wound, splattering down onto the L.L. Bean pea jacket the man wore. She held onto him for just a moment until she felt the shudder of unconsciousness come, and then she let him drop onto the gravel to bleed his life away.

  She wiped the blade on his jacket, stuck it back in its sheath, and then took a quick survey of the perimeter.

  Silence.

  The house loomed above her, dark but for two windows from which soft light shone. She knew by her previous reconnaissance that one of those rooms was the library-study. The man must be up there now, writing or perhaps just reading.

  The other would be the bedroom, where no doubt the man’s wife was up late,
reading or perhaps watching Johnny Carson (or, more likely, Jay Leno substituting for Johnny Carson).

  She knelt over the dead man for a moment, listening to see if there were any signs that this drama had been seen or heard. Nothing but the sound of the Atlantic waves crashing on the rocks, and the cry of a sea gull with insomnia.

  Good. The man had two guards on the night shift, one stationed inside the house, the other stationed outside, and she knew exactly where the latter was.

  She picked up his hand and felt for the pulse just to make sure.

  The wrist was still warm, of course, but there was no sign of a pulse.

  The man was dead.

  A little thrill, a course of elation shot through her: Her adrenaline was now up to peak, and this was the woman’s main high. Now, she was truly alive; all the scents of this cool summer night on this Maine island seemed to open up to her like petals of some dark flower; the smell of the lilies and roses and the apple trees in the garden by the house, the fresh brine taste of the sea in the air, the feel of the moon when it peeked out from the flitting cirrus clouds in the night sky.

  She took just a moment to savor this ecstasy, and then she moved on.

  She had other business to attend to, and his name was Abdul Hazzar. She’d read about him in the British papers when he’d first made news. Read them in her London flat, read them in her country house in the Cotswolds on leisurely nonbusiness weekends lounging around with her cats, read them on trains and planes and road-trips in her Jaguar on business errands.

  Hazzar was a former Shiite Muslim who had written a scathing book-length criticism of the Moslem fundamentalism; like Salman Rushdie with Khomeini before him, Hazzar had been rewarded with a death sentence. He had secretly fled his adopted homeland of Great Britain and, with the help of fortunate wealth, had hidden away somewhere in the vastness of North America….

  Until he’d been located by a certain association.

  Who had sent for her, April Hardesty, professional extraordinaire, with a very specific request in mind. Sent for her, all the way from Great Britain, shipping her in. “April, we suggest you find someplace to keep your cats for a couple of months. We’ve several tasks in mind for you, dear.”