The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy

by David Bischoff

  The grey-touched leader looked to either side at his associates, none of whom had said a single word up to now. Nor did they break that tradition. Some kind of silent communication seemed to take place between the aliens. And then the leader turned back to face Cranston.

  “This is sufficient for now. We will contact you again when the time is right. The next time, however, we need to insist that President Eisenhower himself is present.”

  The leader stood up from the table, and the others followed suit, almost exactly in sync.

  They did not say farewell or goodbye, they simply began to walk toward the closed double-doors that led out to the hallway.

  “Wait!” said Cranston, losing his composure despite himself. “Stop! Where do you think you are going?”

  The aliens stopped as though in a marching squad. However, only the leader turned around. “We are going back into our place of concealment for now. Muse on our words, and have your President do so as well. As I said before, we will contact you when the time is appropriate.”

  They began marching forward once more.

  “I’m sorry,” said Cranston. “But you’re not going anywhere.”

  The aliens had already twisted the doorknobs and pushed open the wood-paneled doors.

  Standing between them and the way out were four men holding rifles.

  “I am apprehending you in the name of the United States government,” said Cranston. “You are under arrest as a threat to our security.”

  The leader turned around to face Cranston. This time his expression had changed—to one of almost human incredulity. “This is a truly foolish move!”

  “It is the only one I can take, I’m afraid.”

  “This cannot be allowed!”

  “You will be well-treated. However, we are going to have to examine you and determine if you really are aliens from another planet before we can even begin to negotiate.”

  “Negotiate? There is no negotiation involved. We mean to impart knowledge. We are no threat.”

  “With your technology, you may well be. We cannot take that chance. We need to even up the odds, I’m afraid. We don’t need wisdom—we need information. And since you do not seem to be willing to impart that to us, since you desire to remain so aloof, so coy… then we will have to take these strong measures.”

  The leader looked truly baffled. “I do not understand. This is inconsistent with the practices of your government—the reason why we chose the United States to approach…”

  “Just cooperate. All will be explained to you in time.” Cranston gestured. A rifleman nodded, and jerked his head significantly. Two more security men appeared, each holding an array of handcuffs.

  “Place your hands behind your backs!” barked the burly men in tones that clearly implied physical authority. These guys were used to getting their way—and had the force to back up their demands.

  However, the aliens remained still. They did not move a muscle nor an eyelid.

  “Please do as they say,” said Cranston at the end of a short sigh. “It will be the best for us all.”

  The leader turned around and faced Cranston. “This cannot be allowed.”

  Almost as one, the aliens broke and ran.

  Two of them headed out the double doors, directly toward the gunmen. Two dashed toward the windows.

  Cranston had been afraid of this.

  “Contingency B!” he cried and ducked underneath the desk. His aides did so as well, only they drew the guns they had been concealing before.

  The men with the handcuffs stepped back, drawing their own guns.

  “Stop or we’ll shoot!” one cried.

  The aliens did not stop.

  The gunmen shot.

  Ear-piercing, crackling explosions.

  The aliens running through the doors were shot first. Bullets splattered their chests and abdomens. They staggered and they fell, one facedown, one spread-eagled on his side like some mannequin knocked from a storefront window. Blood—red blood—flowed copiously.

  The aliens running for the windows were summarily shot in the back. They stumbled and they fell, making no cries.

  As Cranston rose up from behind his desk, the smell of cordite and blood hung in the air.

  “Quick!” he cried. “The medical team!”

  However, this command was not to save lives. It was to prevent what had happened before, at the Roswell site.

  The others scurried about to obey the command. Cranston looked down in distaste at the crumpled bodies, and at the jarred tea service. This was a shame, quite a shame—but absolutely necessary. There was no way that he and his Colleagues could afford to kowtow to the demands of these abominations from Beyond. And without question, the Publishers could not afford to allow this kind of contact... allow this kind of deadly information to leak into public knowledge.

  No, that would destroy everything.

  It had been Cranston’s hope that the discussion could have gone on longer—or that the aliens, after apprehension, somehow could be convinced to simply go away. However, perhaps this was just as well, actually. And if there were more of them out there, then this would send the necessary signal: We do not fool around.

  Cranston could hear the squeak of gurney wheels, the clatter of instruments. The summoned medical team was coming down the hall outside. Yes, they would have to deal with these bodies now. He had to go and report this to the Colleagues... and then take appropriate measures to be certain that news of this event never was heard by the wrong government authorities... or worse, by any public press.

  However, Cranston was interrupted by a most unexpected occurrence.

  The alien bodies—the bodies that Cranston thought were dead, the bodies that should have been dead—rose up.

  They teetered up, not like vengeful zombies out of those cheap EC horror comics Cranston had noticed on newsstands, nor like aliens rising from the grave… No, they rose up like men who had been asleep for a short time, who had just woken up, and who had someplace most definite to go to.

  They got up and they ran.

  The surprise factor was what gave them the edge—and the order of their resurrection. For the aliens who had gone through the door got up first and began running.

  “Stop!” cried one of the riflemen, but he was too surprised to even raise his rifle.

  The commotion drew the attention of everyone in the room to the astonishing and frightening sight of the bloody aliens commencing their flight.

  “Damn!” cried Cranston. “Kill them!” Weapons clicked and chunked and people either aimed or hurried out of the way of the aiming. The movement was toward the doors, to follow the egress of the aliens…

  And so, only Cranston saw the other two aliens getting up. There was no pause or indecision about the manner in which they arose either, nor hesitancy in their mission.

  They got up and ran for the window.

  “Here!” cried Cranston, finally finding his voice. “Security! Over here! They’re escaping! Stop them!”

  The security officers were too busy with the other two aliens, however. The sounds of shots rang out from the foyer; shots and confused cries; thumps; running foot-steps; a scream.

  More staccato shots. A storming hail of gunfire.

  All overlay to the simple sight of the two aliens—dripping blood, headed for that window.

  Running with amazing speed.

  Jumping.

  Crashing through the glass.

  It tinkled down like crystalline rain, almost as though in slow motion.

  Bushes wavered violently as they rolled through the shrubbery. Then they got up and continued their running... running out of sight. Doubtless to the car they’d come in. Cranston had not planned for this possibility!

  “Stop them!” cried Cranston. “They’re escaping!” He ran out into the foyer where the scene was one of total wreckage and destruction.

  “We got them, sir,” buzzed a voice. “I don’t think they’ll be getting up this time.”r />
  These two aliens had made it as far as the front door of the foyer, at which point they had been successfully shot down again. They lay sprawled in pools of their own blood, almost tom apart by the bullets.

  , “I don’t care!” said Cranston. “Two of you watch them, guns trained.” He turned to his communications aide. “Radio to the front gate. Tell them to prevent any departures.”

  “I already have, sir.”

  “Good man. The rest of you, come with me. Repeat performance.”

  “Yes sir.”

  They opened the door.

  “I suppose I’ll need a gun.”

  An automatic was placed in his hand. Ever careful for his own personal safety, however, he allowed his men to charge out before him.

  Even as they stepped outside though, they heard the roar of the Cadillac engine, the screech of tire on cement. He saw the black car racing away toward the gate. More gunfire from there, along with puffs of smoke—but the huge car simply barreled through the barrier and dusted down the road, escaping.

  Cranston cursed himself. He could have had a helicopter, but hadn’t thought he’d need one. The car was gone. How could he possibly call up the state police and order them to chase a Cadillac with aliens in it.

  There would be too many questions, whether or not they were caught.

  Well, at least they still had the ones who had been shot. Cranston turned and went back inside, to where the medical squad hovered over the aliens. Cranston twitched his nose. What was that terrible smell?

  The medical personnel, too, seemed more than aware of it. They held hands or thick pads of gauze against their mouths.

  The two forms below them on the floor were changing. They looked like wax dummies, melting from some invisible heat. They looked like M. Valdemar in that Edgar Allan Poe story.

  Truly dead, they were decomposing with incredible rapidity—taking with them the evidence of their previous existence.

  Cranston sighed and, holding his hand over his mouth, hurried back to his private chambers.

  His Colleagues would not be pleased.

  No, they would not be pleased at all.

  Chapter 26

  After the alien named James finished his story, there was a long silence.

  “And you were one of the two who escaped,” Scarborough said finally. He realized that there were goose bumps on his arms. He shivered, although the air about him was not unpleasantly cool.

  “Awful, just awful,” said Marsha, shuddering. “But why?”

  “This was something that we had to find out for ourselves.”

  “I’m surprised that your people just didn’t come down and nuke the whole planet after that,” said Scarborough. Indignant anger rose up in him as he thought about this story. He found himself almost identifying with the aliens whose existence he had denied for so long.

  A smile cracked James’s grim visage. Robert chuckled a bit, unfolded his hands, and scratched his head. “You misunderstand. We are cousins to humanity, yes—but we play by more ethical rules. Our actions are not from anger, but from necessity.”

  “Which explains your occasional use of violence here.”

  “Yes. But only against those whose vocabulary is violence. We do not kill or manipulate the innocent. The death we deal makes us sick, but sometimes it is necessary,” continued James. “But Robert is right. Our operations follow an ethical imperative which we try and adhere to. But we are on a dark and desperate course here—”

  “I don’t quite follow...” said Scarborough.

  “Tell us more about this organization of the Publishers, the Colleagues—behind the Editors we’ve been dealing with. This Mitchell Cranston you met with…”

  “Yes. He is still alive and still in command of what is called ‘the Panorama.’ Namely the White Book, and the Black Book, and the way they intersect with the Colleagues’ worldwide agenda.”

  “Which is?” said Scarborough.

  “Control of the collective consciousness and unconsciousness of humanity. Nothing less than political and sociological and economic tyranny. The Colleagues are nothing less than an ancient collection of masterminds who control the world and the worldview of the population through insidious means.”

  It was difficult for Scarborough to get his mind around the concept, to grasp it—but James had been right. At this point in his life, he was quite paranoid enough to accept this incredible idea.

  “But why do you bother with the situation? Why don’t you just leave and wash your hands of us?” said Marsha.

  “Several reasons. Paramount of which is that for better or worse, eventually your race will discover a star drive and venture out amongst the other races in the galaxy. We would hope for a humanity prepared to take its place peacefully amongst the other intelligent races of the stars. But more importantly, we could not leave after such a debacle. For you see, the Colleagues have embarked upon a plan for more power, more control—and vital in that plan is a program of disinformation concerning our activities here.”

  Scarborough nodded. “I’m beginning to understand.”

  “Well, I don’t!” said Marsha.

  “The abductions... What they’re saying is that none of the abductions, the experiments which are a large part of the UFO lore these days is being done by aliens. It’s being done by the Publishers, though quasigovernmental channels.”

  “Of course,” said Marsha. “Yes, that makes sense...”

  “There is nothing like fear to mold the minds of an intelligent race. And the Colleagues are ancient masters at using fear as a weapon. We have been working against their efforts for years—”

  “Including through the works of Lowell Davis, the science-fiction writer?” said Marsha.

  “We have merely encouraged his efforts through various means, just as we have encouraged all open thinking. But this is not the main reason we are still here.”

  “Which is?” said Scarborough.

  “What has been done by these people must be undone. For the sake of your planet… for the sake, ultimately, of other planets. The Projects White Book and Black Book must be exposed.”

  “Go on.”

  “We came too soon. Mankind is not ready for us. But the wrong seeds have been planted for our eventual return. If we had abandoned Earth those years ago, left everything in these power-mongers’ control, it would be a truly twisted monster of a race that would eventually emerge into the flow of interstellar life.”

  He took a breath.

  “We would cover the actual evidence of our existence, but would like to leave an untarnished image. And who better to do that for us than you, Everett Scarborough. You and Marsha Manning and Jake Camden—and naturally, your own daughter, who will have so much knowledge and truth to impart after her stay with us.”

  Scarborough nodded. “I see. You’ve been forging a public relations man. And who better than a scientist and a convert from skepticism for your cause.”

  “Who better indeed?”

  “And this is why you’ve allowed these things to happen... to put me through some sort of a spiritual journey… So I would accept your existence and what you want to do. “

  “And to prepare you for the doing... And perhaps to draw out and expose the activities of not just the Editors, but the Publishers as well,” said Robert. “It has not been easy, but it has been necessary.”

  “So all this time... You’ve been allowing them to control me… knowing, ultimately, that I would be your tool… and setting me up for that.”

  “Yes.”

  Scarborough swallowed, closed his eyes. “And what of the theories of Dr. Julia Cunningham?”

  “Theories?” said James.

  “Yes. I read part of her notebook. It said that—” emotion and fear caught in his throat, but he forced the words out—“it said that White Book had reason to believe that I—I am one of you.”

  James looked over at Robert, and they made alarmingly human gestures of bemusement. “No. Most definitely un
true,” said James.

  “But I did have blackouts in college—” Scarborough said. “Was I... abducted? Did you program me?”

  James shook his head sadly. “No. We confess we have been running you through a maze. We confess you have been specifically chosen by us for a role in our endeavors, just as you were chosen by the Publishers. However, we have not programmed your mind, we never kidnapped you, and ultimately we are giving you a choice in the matter, unlike them.”

  “But those experiences he had,” said Marsha. “What were they?”

  “We have had little time to delve into the complex issue of the psychology of humankind,” said James. “However, the abduction experience is something that is embedded in mythological and cultural experience. This is why it was so easy for White Book to take advantage of the abduction mythos. You should not be so distraught about the fundamental fallacy of your books, Dr. Scarborough. The facts, the reason, the science, and the splendid logic of them are quite sound. And most of the cases you expose were frauds or delusions, just as you say.”

  “The Betty and Barney Hill abduction case?”

  “Psychological hysteria. Welling up from the pop culture and unconscious stresses of the times—just as you posited. However, that case—and the other initial cases—formed the basis of White Book’s schematic. From this basic culturally and psychologically derived image of the alien—the gumby alien as we like to call them, or sometimes the Stephen Spielberg alien—”

  “You keep yourselves tuned into the popular culture, don’t you?” said Marsha, her serious expression softening somewhat.

  “Yes...” said James, smiling. “Part of the job. At any rate, this is the concept that White Book utilized—”

  “The strange, weird alien…” said Scarborough, nodding his head. “The alien alien... Not understanding the fears and needs of human beings… Bumbling about in their flying saucers and selecting victims to perpetrate obscure horrors upon in their attempts to understand our race. Or perhaps to create a new race... Or a half-dozen other warped possibilities.”

  “I’m sure you can enumerate them all, but there is really no need,” James said. “Suffice it to say that those behind White Book very efficiently used what was at their disposal to create a very effective tool of fear.”