Chapter 16
Everett Scarborough stopped at the Vietnamese refreshment stand on the Pentagon grounds, and waited his tum to buy his ritual spring roll and iced jasmine tea from the oriental couple who ran the concession booth and sold not only the usual hot dogs, Cokes and chips but also a small array of Far Eastern treats.
Scarborough had calculated once that the spot which the stand occupied was precisely Ground Zero for Russian nuclear missiles; and the first stuff to go in the flash would be a lot of minted fried rice, then the fire storm would seep through this gigantic five-sided monster of military bureaucracy, and afterward across the Potomac to deal with the rest of the government buildings.
“Thanks, Anna,” he said to the dark-haired woman as he accepted his purchase.
“Dr. Everett!” she said, smiling. “We not see you much lately! Three, four week since you been here!” Anna and Trung Dai had been business people in South Vietnam before the communists had taken over. They’d fled to the States, and lived in Clarendon, Virginia, a section of Arlington that soon came to be called “Little Saigon” because of all the immigrants. The Dais had used what little money they had to start up this booth. Now they owned two more like it and were once again prosperous business people—but they still insisted on running the lunch hour here themselves.
“I’ve been very busy lately, Anna.”
Several years ago, doing work on one of his books, Scarborough had almost camped out at the Pentagon. This was when he frequented the Vietnamese food-stand so often that he’d gotten to know the friendly owners. They’d taken him up one night to a restaurant on Wilson Boulevard, where they’d feasted on what Trung called “slow Vietnamese food”—spicy soups and delicious satays, chicken with lemon grass, and marvelous fried rice with a touch of fish sauce. Now, he made sure that they got autographed copies of all his books.
“Trung, look who is here!”
The grey-haired man greeted Scarborough cordially. “I read your book with great interest, Dr. Everett. But I swear to you, I see a flying thing some miles from Saigon, and it was no U.S. helicopter! “
“Trung, you’ve got to admit, there’s a hell of a lot of swamp gas in your part of the world!”
They laughed, and insisted on giving him an extra spring roll for free.
He took the afternoon treat and sat on some nearby stone steps in the afternoon sun, enjoying the light breeze rippling from the trees in the general direction of Arlington Cemetery. He took a sip of the cold tea, enjoying the crunch of the shaved ice, and then dipped the first spring roll that was on the tray into the small container of duck sauce that the diminutive Vietnamese lady had given him.
He looked up at the monolithic expanse of the Pentagon, and he whispered, “Dolan, I’m comin’ to get you.”
That morning, he still couldn’t raise Mac, so he’d called Colonel Walter Dolan, his liaison with the Air Force, whose office was located here amongst the hundreds of other Department of Defense, Army, Navy, and Air Force offices holding over 23,000 workers. He’d told Colonel Dolan about the missing files. Dolan’s response was warm but disbelieving, and he’d ended the conversation with an abrupt excuse, promising to get back “later on in the week.” That date, of course, was much too late for Scarborough. He wanted his confrontation with the man, and he wanted it now.
Your normal citizen, of course, would have to wait. Fortunately, because of his constant visits here, Scarborough had a permanent pass. Dolan’s inner offices might be a problem if he’d thought to warn the Pentagon MPs. But Everett Scarborough was a calm, law-abiding man, wasn’t he? There’d be no problem with Scarborough.
Scarborough smiled at himself as he chewed on the batter-coated shrimp and vegetables. The colonel’s estimation of him was what he was counting on.
He finished up his snack, wiped his hands with a napkin, drank down the rest of the tea, and then chucked the refuse into a waste-bin.
Then he headed for the office security checkpoint, pulling his name-badge from his pocket.
The Pentagon was built on a mud-flat called “Hell’s Bottom,” and it was this difficult site that dictated its unusual shape. General Brehon Burke Somervell, the Army’s supply-services director during World War II, came up with the idea: why not house all the essential offices of the U.S. military establishment in one large building, to expedite communication and cooperation? The architect’s design—five pentagonal structures arranged in concentric rings around an open court and connected by ten spoke like corridors—had no elevators, afforded little silhouette, and conserved structural steel, since metal was in short supply during the 1941-43 building period.
During the Second World War, and the Korean and Vietnam wars, it seemed to work fine. So what if a well-placed nuclear weapon would take out some of the highest officials in the government in a snap. There were plenty of other military sites more than happy to lob a few missiles at the bad guys. In matters of world destruction, there were megatons to spare. However, it wasn’t the cold war or the threat of nuclear obliteration that was dragging the Pentagon down—it was the simple disease of bureaucracy, complicated by corruption, fraud, and bribery. Scarborough had watched it all happening with a kind of detached horror. A longtime liberal, he didn’t care much at all for the military, and he simply despised the Republican regime that ran the Executive branch for eight years. He let his steam off in his lectures and books, and it was for this reason that no critic could accuse him of being an establishment sort, a fat cat protecting the fatter cats, helping in a conspiracy. As far as Scarborough was concerned, the bureaucrats of the past and present, whether they be CIA, NSA, or FDA, were far too dull and stupid to properly cover-up crashed flying saucers. And the military! Whew! They didn’t call marines jar-heads for nothing, and marines tended to be the
smartest of the sorry, gun-crazy bunch! He counted his dealings with the Air Force in the Project Blue Book as unfortunate but necessary, which was just how he felt about his further contacts. Somehow, though, the country had muddled through, despite everything, and Scarborough was happy about that—he kept his cynicism about the government at an amused and witty level, an attitude that most military and government sorts could not only tolerate, but could actually privately sympathize with as well. “The saving grace of this whole convoluted mess,” Scarborough had once written in a book, “is purely and simply the process of democracy and this nation’s lovely and vital Constitution.”
Scarborough’s pass got him all the way through several checkpoints stationed along dull linoleum and Hellenic passageways in the mammoth complex. In fact, it got him all the way to Colonel Dolan’s secretary, a severe-looking WAVE in starched blues and horn-rims who registered surprise to see him.
“Doctor Scarborough, what are you doing here?” she said in her nasal Queens accent. “You haven’t got an appointment.”
“That’s right,” said Scarborough, “but I need to talk to the colonel right away. I know he’s in today, I talked to him on the phone.”
The secretary’s hands clenched above a mass of paperwork. “I’m sorry, but the colonel’s having a meeting now. You’ll either have to come back later—or make an appointment later in the week.”
“Hmm. I see,” said Scarborough, looking around at the spartan office, complete with aerial photographs of Washington, D.C. and portraits of several recent presidents and famous U.S. generals. “Well, in that case, maybe I’d better make an appointment. The colonel didn’t seem to have time to do that himself, so perhaps you can tell me when he’ll be free this week.”
The secretary—Corporal Ellen Nichols, Scarborough knew from past meetings and from the plate propped on her desk, if he’d forgotten—relaxed visibly. She leaned over, pulled open a drawer, and removed the colonel’s appointment calendar. “Yes, I think that I can take care of that for you, Doctor,” she said in a monotone, turning her attention away from him.
Scarborough used the opportunity to scoot past the desk, turn the knob on the glassed door and walk into Colonel Walter Dolan’s office.
“Dr. Scarborough!” cried the secretary.
Colonel Walter Dolan, USAF, sat at a large walnut desk, a phone cradled at his ear, pudgy neck, and blue dress-shirt. His tie was undone, and his sleeves were rolled up. His much-decorated blue air force jacket hung neatly on a coatrack, right by his stiff drum like blue cap. His seat squeaked as he swiveled to see who this unscheduled visitor was, and his dark eyebrows—particularly pronounced against his mane of white hair—rose with surprise.
Scarborough walked forward and slammed the desk with the heel of his hand, “Dolan, I demand that you explain what the hell is going on with my files!” He leaned over and glared at the officer, who blinked and grinned stupidly.
“Captain, can we continue this conversation later? I’ve got an unexpected guest. Yes, a half hour will do.” Calmly, he cradled the phone and leaned forward, folding his hands in a fatherly gesture of relaxed authority. “Ev, I don’t remember telling you to come down here.”
“He just stormed through, sir,” said the corporal, looking nervously at the tall, overbearing sight of Everett Scarborough in fighting stance. “Do you want me to get Security?”
Colonel Dolan shook his head adamantly. “What? No, of course not! Ev Scarborough’s been in this office plenty of times. But I must say, never without an invitation.” He directed a disapproving look at his colleague.
Scarborough did not flinch from the cold expression. “I’m sorry, Walter, but I don’t like to be brushed off. I’ve got an important matter to deal with here, and I demand an answer.”
For a moment, Dolan looked as though he was going to change his mind and summon Security; a flash of anger, chagrin, perhaps even a touch of fear went through his usually friendly grey eyes. But then he looked down at his desk for a moment, took a breath, and looked back, cracking a wry grin. “Hell, you don’t take no for an answer, do you, boy!” he said, affecting a bit of the East Texas drawl he grew up with.
“That’s why you hired me back for the Blue, that’s why we’ve kept in touch, Walter. You’ve got to know that if I’m acting like an ass on this, it’s got to be something that merits that kind of behavior.”
The colonel gestured to his secretary. “He’ll be okay, Corporal. Don’t call the Mumps.” Dolan sat back into his deep, yielding chair. “’Course, this bozo better have something — important to chew about, or you’ll have to call the medical corps.”
Not quite totally satisfied, but nonetheless obeying orders, the woman marched stiffly out. Scarborough waited for the door to close, then turned back to the older man. “Colonel Dolan, you know why I’m here. We didn’t speak long this morning, but I gave you the gist.”
“Ev! What’s this ‘Colonel Dolan’ business? For the past fifteen years it’s been ‘Walt’—here, sit down. You wanna cup of coffee?” Dolan hefted his girth up and strode to a Mr. Coffee machine, where he commenced to pour some brew into a mug labeled “Sirly.” “How ‘bout I sweeten it up just a tad,” he said, pulling out a whiskey bottle from a drawer.
“Just coffee, Walt. We’ve got to talk. This is serious.”
“Okay, fella. Talk is cheap enough. Here you go.” Dolan settled the mug of steaming coffee in front of Scarborough, and then sat down. “I really couldn’t gab this morning, Ev. Damn busy. You know, I only got a couple of years before mandatory retirement, and I think the government wants to squeeze every bit of juice outta this pour dried-out husk before they let the winds just blow me away.”
“Colonel—Walt—” Scarborough took the folded Xerox copies of his relevant file-papers that Mac had sent him. “You remember Captain MacKenzie, don’t you?”
“‘Course I remember the crooked bastard. Cheated me out of a huge poker-pot back in ‘68.” Dolan leaned forward in his chair, pointing to the side of Scarborough’s face. “You okay, Evvie? I heard about that business on Friday night at your revival meetin’. We don’t want to lose you pal. You take care, now, hear?”
Scarborough touched his bandages. “It’s nothing. I’m sure you know all that needs to be known about it.” He tendered the papers to the colonel, tapping them emphatically after he’d laid them on the desk. “This needs your attention, now, Walt.”
“This those reports you were talking about, Ev?”
“Copies of reports from Mac’s files,” Scarborough said, getting up and crossing to a large bookcase. He scanned the displayed spines—bound Congressional Quarterlies, military publications, a copy of Pentagon by Allen Drury—until he found what he was looking for. A leather-bound volume of The Abridged Report on Project Blue Book. He pulled the large tome from its place and hefted it over to the desk. Quickly, he found the pages he’d found in his own copy yesterday, opened the volume to the first appropriate passage, and proffered it to the air force officer.
“I’m supposed to read these?” said Dolan, taking out half-frame reading glasses.
“I’ll summarize. You can read later. What you’ve got there are some significant changes of information. Particularly on the Iowa business. The Blue Book report is very different from the investigation report. Mac found a few more large discrepancies like that, so he asked me to check them out as well. I didn’t think it was all that important—”
“Well, shit, Ev, it’s not! This bullcrap is twenty years stale! This is UFO stuff, Evvie, and you know that the Air Force closed the whole investigation with Blue Book. You helped us do it! Now, we’re keeping a hand in helpin’ people like you disseminate our information to the public. We figure we owe it to people to remind them that all this stuff about people from other planets is hog pucky! But that’s about the extent of our present involvement. You know that, pal! You’ve written about Air Force involvement with UFOs!”
Scarborough regarded the officer for a moment. All of Dolan’s body language seemed involved in some symphony of sincerity. His eyes never veered to the floor, the expression all rang true—but that Southern accent! Dolan always had a hint of it, but never had Scarborough heard it poured on so thick. The colonel was acting like some kind of Ocean City time-sharing condo salesman. And Scarborough wasn’t buying.
“If you could just examine this information, Walt—as soon as you can—and report to me, in writing, an official explanation, I’ll include it in my next book.” Scarborough sipped at the brackish coffee and cleared his throat. “Of more immediate concern to me, though, is the matter of my missing files.”
“Yeah, you mentioned something about that on the phone.” Dolan gave a dismissive gesture. “Those files are twenty years old, fella. You must’ve either lost or misplaced them.”
Scarborough shook his head. “No. I checked. And my late wife was the person who organized my files, and she specifically created folders for those documents.” Scarborough leaned forward, frowning. “Walt, I think those files were stolen!”
Colonel Dolan held his hands out in a helpless gesture. “Why would anyone want to steal some yellowing old reports on sightings of aircraft that don’t exist!”
“My question exactly.”
“Now hold your horses a moment, boy. I’m starting to get the drift of your insinuations.” He flapped the Xeroxes contemptuously. “These reports don’t match the Blue ... Cousin Mac sees a nigger in the woodpile and comes bellowin’ to his buddy the UFO expert. The doc thinks his are stolen. Sounds like you guys have been chewin’ on some paranoia for breakfast!”
“Maybe,” said Scarborough. “And when you wouldn’t talk to me this morning—well, that didn’t help.”
“Cripes, Ev! I’m a busy man! Sorry about that, but I am talking to you right now, aren’t I?”
“True.”
Dolan shook his head and ran his fingers through his shock of white hair, leaning forward in a confidential manner. “Hell, Ev. You know that the bozos in this business can’t even pull off a decent procurement-contract cover-up. Big business gets the crafty sorts—the military is lucky if the new officers can wipe their asses and pick their noses at the same time.” Dolan snorted. “So you think that we sent over one of those James Bond sorts to lift a stupid UFO report. Sheesh, maybe there is something weird in the drinkin’ water out in Bethesda!”
“I’ll admit, it does sound farfetched. But the fact remains, you’ve got this discrepancy here—I want you to tell me who wrote up that part of the Blue Book report. And I want to know why my report wasn’t followed.”
Dolan shrugged. He examined the bent documents for a moment, then scanned the open book in front of him. “Hmm. Yes. I see what you mean. There are differences. Green lights in the report, red in the book ... Yeah ... well, maybe you’re right, Ev. I’ll get to work on this. We do go back a long way, so I figure l owe that to you. But as far as these disappearing files of yours go ... well, I think you’re barking up the wrong tree on that one.”
“Could be. Nonetheless, thanks, Walt. I hope you’ll be equally cooperative on my next request.”
Dolan rolled his eyes. “Lordy help me! He wants the keys to the officer’s massage parlor!”
Despite himself, Scarborough chuckled. “Not quite. This whole business with the gunman at my lecture has postponed my tour. I’ve got some time on my hands. I’ll be leaving tomorrow for a trip to Iowa. I’m going to reopen the investigation on UFOs out there with my friend Captain MacKenzie. I’d appreciate Air Force aid and support where and when necessary.”
Dolan’s cheek filled as he probed the inside of his mouth with a tongue thoughtfully. He gazed down at the rumpled report a moment, then looked back up at Scarborough. “Twenty years is a hell of a long time, Ev. What do you hope to accomplish?”
“I want to get the record straight. I pride myself on correct research for my books. I want to make sure that the facts are correct. Also, MacKenzie wants me to visit—maybe we’ll do some fishing.”
“So I take it that I can send you anything I find to his address—you don’t happen to have it on hand, do you?”
Scarborough got up. “He’s a retired air force officer, Walt. I should think that you’ve got his address and his phone number on a Rolodex somewhere.”
Dolan smiled softly and bobbed his head. “Yep. Yep, I guess we do at that.”
“Fine.” Scarborough stabbed a finger at the copy of Mac’s files. “You get someone on that, Walt. Right away. There’s no way that I can prove those files of mine were stolen. In all probability they weren’t. However it’s a fact that there’s some serious discrepancy between that report and Blue Book. Explain it or correct it. Good day.”
He turned and marched for the door.
“Ev!” said the colonel, just as his hand touched the knob.
“Yes?” Turning.
Colonel Walter Dolan stood up and leaned against the desk, a broad smile on his face. “Ev, I do believe you are upset.”
“I am upset,” Scarborough said, annoying the attempt at ironic humor.
“Doctor Ev! How long have we been working together. What, almost twenty-five years now? Hell, I bounced that little baby girl of yours on my knee, we’ve burned tons o’ barbecue, and we must a’ put away a hundred cases o’ beer and maybe a few kegs of that fine Scotch liquor o’ yours. Ev, we’re friends! And now, you come in here like a firehouse on fire, bangin’ my desk and makin’ demands. What gives?”
“Just do what I ask, Walt. We’ll work this out later, okay?”
“No, it’s not okay. You’ve been under pressure, friend. That business Friday night must have put you over the edge. You’re flirtin’ with a nervous breakdown; I can see it in your eyes. And hell, you’re twitchin’!”
The colonel was right, Scarborough knew. Not about the nervous breakdown—but with this past weekend’s problems, he did feel the strain. Nonetheless, it wasn’t time to talk about it—especially not when Dolan was talking like some used snake-oil seller.
“Must go, Colonel. Just get me what I want, and I won’t barge in on you anymore.”
“Sure, Ev, sure. You take care now, hear?”
Scarborough closed the door behind him and left, ignoring the dirty look from the corporal.
He had to go home and make that phone call to Mac.
And then he had to pack for his trip to Iowa—and, God help him, to Kansas University.
Colonel Walter Dolan waited three minutes after Scarborough left for his blood pressure to go down.
Then he made the phone call.
“Richards?” he said, his voice low and slightly trembling.
“Yes.”
“We’ve got to talk. Scarborough was just here. Big problems.”
Dolan didn’t get specific. It wasn’t good to talk on the phone about specifics in matters involving Brian Richards. The man was absolutely top-level, with clearances up the wazoo—but with the era of technology the way it was, phones could not be trusted to be untapped.
“Okay. I’m still in town. Think you can make it up the George Washington Parkway in about twenty minutes?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“This Scarborough guy—are we going to have continuing difficulties with him? He’s a cornerstone of the whole operation!”
“I don’t know,” said Dolan. “We’ll talk when I see you.”
“Right.”
The phone hung up at the other end.
Colonel Walter Dolan tapped onto another line. “Transportation? Colonel Walter Dolan here. Think you can have a chopper ready for me in about five minutes?” Dolan fumbled out a cigarette from a stale pack in his desk. He’d quit smoking for the nth time two months ago. But it was time to start again. “I only need a quick hop. Where?” He lit the cigarette. “Just up the road. Central Intelligence Agency building.”
He sucked in the smoke and coughed violently.