Descent

By Michael J. Scott

Christopher James--a disgraced and scandalized reporter--would like nothing more than to get away from everything. But his latest assignment at The Tattler, a low-budget tabloid in Roswell, NM, becomes far more than he bargained for when his informant is murdered, and all signs point to an otherworldly culprit.

As James follows the evidence, he uncovers a vast conspiracy too incredible to be believed: the origins of the UFO mania that has swept the nation, the secret fate of Nikola Tesla's lost research, and a dark coalition between the highest reaches of the Federal bureaucracy and a very alien agenda. Can he learn the truth before it's too late, or will the entities obstructing him fatally end his interference?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael J. Scott
• Release date: Jul 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370809196

Michael J. Scott

Michael James Scott is a Professor and Chief of Critical Care Medicine in Penn Medicine, USA. He has over 25-year experience in Anesthesiology and Critical Care Medicine, and his research interest includes pathophysiology of surgery and perioperative outcomes, analgesia, functional outcomes and opioid sparing. Dr. Scott’s work in basic sciences and quality improvement has led to worldwide acceptance of a new approach to care of the surgical patient – Enhanced Recovery After Surgery (ERAS). In 2003 his department’s published work has helped build the evidence base that rapid recovery after surgery leads to improved outcomes, reduced complications and reduced costs.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I shouldn’t even be talking to you.

And yet, you’re here.

His hands shifted nervously, making the coffee in his mug slosh against the sides. He stole a glance out the window, his eyes flicking briefly to the massive, flying saucer.

It’s a joke, you know, he said. That’s not what it looks like.

I glanced behind, taking in the sign over the UFO museum in Roswell, New Mexico. We sat inside the Not Of This World Cyber Café just up the block from the museum. Though appropriately named for the town’s lunatic theme, the coffee shop managed to retain a sense of humor and sanity, as well as a decent menu. There were only a few tables in the café. Most were unoccupied. A man in a white cowboy hat sat in the far back, sipping his latté with his girlfriend, wife, or mistress. I couldn’t tell which. Most of the café’s business came through the walk-ins who swung through the glass doors, grabbed their caffeine, and disappeared just as quickly. It wouldn’t have been a problem, except that every time the door opened, my table partner fidgeted, like he would bolt from his chair and vanish into the darkened streets—and that would be cosmically bad, pardon the pun.

So you’ve seen it?

He sipped coffee, his hands shaky. He nodded erratically.

Been inside it?

He laughed and played a staccato rhythm on the table with his fingers. Ain’t nobody be-been inside that thing in fi-fifty years. He shifted back and forth in his seat. I’d seen autistic kids do the same thing.

You seen the film, ‘Alien autopsy’? he said. Not the comedy, but the real footage?

Yeah, I drawled. It was faked. Ray Santilli admitted as much in 2006.

He said it was based on the lost footage.

Heard that, too. But nobody else has ever seen it.

He grinned sheepishly. I suspected he was testing me. The doorbells Jangled and he jumped backward in his chair. The couple that came in glanced at him, but moved dismissively to the counter.

You should switch to decaf, I said.

This is decaf.

Great.

Santilli’s probably a fraud, he admitted. But there really was an alien autopsy. Thing is, they weren’t aliens. They were the test pilots. Frickin’ U.S. Air Force. That’s what happened to their bodies when they were exposed to the radiation inside. It aff-aff-affected them on a su-su-subatomic level. He smiled apologetically. I stutter.

I noticed.

D-didn’t use to. ‘Cept I got too close once. Could use a cigarette. Calms me down.

I don’t smoke.

Yet. Can’t smoke in here, anyway. It’s a crock, too. Frickin’ EPA changed the standards to rule out se-second hand smoke. Justify the ta-taxes and penalties on the tobacco indu-dustry. More money for them.

I tapped my pen on the table, next to my notepad. The page was still blank. I checked my watch and held his eyes with my own. He said you’d have something for me. And I could have added, ‘Come up with it soon, or I’m outta here.’ Too many better things to do than waste my time with a twitchy, wannabe informant.

Who-who said that?

I pressed my lips into a thin line. That was exactly the question I’d hoped he wouldn’t ask. I gave what I guessed would be the right answer. It was the only answer I had. The Coffee Man.

Oh. Him. You mean Juan Valdez. That’s what I c-call him, on account of his—well, you know. I don’t even like c-coffee.

Juan Valdez. I snorted. You’re losing your touch, Jimmy, I thought to myself. Juan Valdez was a whole lot more creative than Coffee Man. At least it was a name.

Thing is, he said, I don’t know you. You m-mi-might be one of them.

If I were, would Juan be talking to me?

True. Course, you might have just h-heard about him. You called him, ‘C-Coffee Man.’ It’s not like you know his n-name.

Nobody knows his name. If he even has one.

Oh. Right.

So how about it? You got anything for me or not?

The doorbells Jangled again, and three men walked in. They wore denim and flannel, with burly beards covering their faces, looking like hunters. One after another, they gazed in our direction. I ignored them.

He reached into his left sleeve and withdrew a flash drive. This is it, he said.

What is it?

Everything about everything. I spent the last five years p-putting that together. You want m-my advice?

Not really, I thought.

Take that and b-burn it. D-destroy it. I wouldn’t even give it to you ‘cept I was t-told to.

I snorted. Well, I guess we’re all under orders, aren’t we? I slipped the drive into my pocket.

He withdrew from me. What’s that su-supposed to mean?

I furrowed my brow. What’s what?

Under orders?

Nothing.

You’re with them? He glanced over my shoulder, his eyes going wide. His face drained of color. You brought them here?

I turned around to see the three hunters thrusting toward our table. Behind me, the doorbells Jangled again. I looked back in time to see my would-be informant darting down the sidewalk. I rose to follow, but one of the hunters stood in my way.

Excuse me, I said, intending to push past him. The other two men left the shop, following my guy.

Oh excuse me, the third man said. He didn’t budge an inch. Do you have the time?

There was a clock on the wall above our heads. I looked at him, once at the clock, and then back at him. He followed my eyes, grinning oddly.

Eight thirty, I said.

He nodded, still wearing that silly grin.

Pardon me, I repeated, again to push by him.

Could you tell me where North Virginia Ave is?

I’m sure I don’t know.

Isn’t it a block down East Second Street?

I guess so.

He smiled and nodded. Thank you. With that, he stepped aside. I rushed out the door, racing down the block. The wind bit cool off the desert, and in the dark sky above, the stars were veiled by the city lights surrounding me. I dashed down the sidewalk, glancing once over the near empty parking lot by the café, and then ran toward the corner. At the intersection I stopped, looking down the streets for any sign of my informant or the two men who’d followed him.

Huddled against the wall on my right, a man doubled over, with one hand holding his stomach.

Hey! I called.

The man fell against the sidewalk.

I rushed to his side, turning him over. The face of my informant stared up at me, his eyes glassy. A dark, crimson stain ebbed from a wound in his chest.

Oh God, I prayed, feeling for a pulse.

There was none.

I grabbed my phone and dialed 911, waiting by his body. In my front pocket, I could feel the shape of the memory stick he’d given me pressing against my thigh. It was small comfort.

I didn’t even know the man’s name.

Chapter 2

The cops showed up with an ambulance less than three minutes later. In the dazzling glare of the emergency lights, the EMT’s confirmed that the man was dead and stepped back while the police forensics team processed the scene. As the only witness, I found myself pressed against the brick wall answering a series of questions twice. The first time had been to a regular beat cop—Officer Gutierrez, the first responder. I pegged him as thorough, precise, and professional: the kind of man who’d rise reasonably far in the department, but a lack of imagination would keep him from ever making detective. The second time was with Detective Donald Fallon, the exact opposite of Gutierrez in practically every detail.

Okay, what’s your name?

He had Gutierrez’s report in front of him, but I decided against pointing that out. Evidently, he wanted to go over it again.

Christopher James, I said, But everyone calls me Jimmy.

What is your relationship with Dr. O’Keefe?

I caught myself before saying, ‘Who is O’Keefe?’ Evidently, that was my informant’s name. He was also a doctor. I wondered in what field of study.

We just met. He was offering me information.

About what?

I don’t know.

You don’t know?

He didn’t get that far.

You’re meeting with a guy to buy information, and you don’t know what it is?

No. I’m a reporter.

A reporter.

I nodded. He paused to light a cigarette, and started writing in his notebook. What paper you work for?

The Tattler. My voice sounded small.

The Tattler, he exclaimed. Several heads turned in our direction, scowling when they saw me.

Sort of freelance.

Tattler’s a smut-rag.

So I’ve heard.

You write that story about Sheriff Bill? The Tattler’s exposé of Sheriff Bill and his sexual liaisons in the city lock up was infamous in two regards—one in that it cost Sheriff Bill the election, two in that it was a complete fabrication, resulting in a libel suit with The Tattler still wading through the courts. The whole thing happened several years ago, but the police in this town had long memories, and little forgiveness.

I shook my head. Before my time.

Uh huh. So you working a story?

Well, yeah. Exploring one, at least.

About what?

I don’t know. I nodded toward Dr. O’Keefe’s body, now encased in a zippered, black plastic bag. They were loading it into the coroner’s vehicle. That’s what I was hoping he could tell me.

Uh huh. Now these men that you think might have assaulted Dr. O’Keefe—did you see the attack?

I shook my head. I couldn’t get out of the restaurant in time.

And you couldn’t get a description of these men.

I frowned. No, that’s not right. I did. I gave it to Officer Gutierrez.

He puffed on his cigarette and flipped through the report. Three men about five foot tall each, with beards, denim jeans, and flannel jackets, he read.

Yeah, that’s it.

I was sorta thinking that was a mistake. Flannel jackets here in the desert.

Well, that may be weird, but yeah, that’s what they wore.

He said nothing for a beat, then, Mind can play funny tricks on a man, here in the desert. You do drugs?

No.

Coke? Hash? Weed? Meth?

No.

Prescriptions? Alcohol?

Strongest drug I’ve had tonight is two cups of coffee.

Do any acid in college? That stuff can come back years later.

What has this got to do with anything? I never did acid. No.

He fished a cell phone from his pocket. See, I guess that’s the part that’s got me confused. You being a reporter and all, you’re supposed to report on what you see, not what you don’t. ‘Course, you do work for the Tattler, which might explain things.

What's this all about?

He showed me the phone. This here’s my new toy. Kids got it for me for Christmas. Ain’t that something? You know, I can watch full-length movies on this thing? Sound ain’t bad, neither. Look at that picture. Full color. High def. Now, here’s the thing. Hang on a sec, while I call this up. He pressed some buttons on the screen. An image zoomed into view. I recognized the interior of the café. This café’s got digital security cameras. And they’ve already graciously emailed me the footage from the last two hours. Now see? This here’s you talking to our good friend there, the deceased Dr. O’Keefe. Pleasant enough conversation. Then, up, there he goes out the door. And now it’s your turn. Up, there you go. Look at the clock, look back down, and then out you go.

He rewound the video and played it again for me. I stared at it, dumbstruck.

What I don’t see—and I must’ve watched this like five or six times already—what I don’t see are any three men dressed like hunters in denim and flannel, talking to you or following Dr. O’Keefe out the door. I just don’t see it.

That’s impossible, I murmured. They were there. I saw them. I talked to them.

I see you talking, but there ain’t nothing there.

He asked me the time, and then he asked if I knew where North Virginia Ave is, and whether it wasn’t a block down East Second. This must’ve been altered. Someone deleted the images. It’s the only thing that makes sense.

Really. He grimaced and put the phone away. Mr. James, let me give you a piece of advice. Why don’t you just cut the crap and tell me what really happened?

I did!

You lie to me, I’ll charge you with obstruction.

I opened and closed my mouth, and then said, I only know what I saw.

He held my gaze a moment, then shook his head and handed me a business card. If’n your recollection changes any, give me a call. Don’t go anywhere till we clear this up, though. Okay?

I took the card, put it in my pocket, and offered him my hand. He regarded it coolly, took a final drag from his cigarette before tossing it away and said, Catch you later.

I watched as the police and coroner’s vehicles left the scene. With the flashing lights gone, the night descended on the quiet streets. I thrust my hands in my pockets and sauntered back to the café.

I’d parked in the lot next to the coffee shop. A gray SUV. Comfortable enough, for a company vehicle. I pulled out my keys and thumbed the remote, unlocking the vehicle. Climbing inside, I had the door shut before I realized the dome lights hadn’t come on, and that a cup of steaming coffee waited in the cup holder.

The panic only lasted a moment. I grabbed the rear view mirror and tilted it. The silhouette of a man’s head was framed against the ambient light from the windows.

Coffee Man.

There was nothing you could have done, he said. He was dead the moment they came in. Had you tried to stop them, you’d be dead, too.

I hadn’t seen Coffee Man in almost a year, but he was as enigmatic as ever. Usually, he contacted me over the phone. That he was here now both surprised and unsettled me. I picked up the coffee and lifted it to my lips. What’d you bring me this time?

Hazelnut. Decaf.

Decaf?

You’ll need your sleep tonight.

I took a sip. It was good. Like always.

You were watching us, I said.

The silhouette nodded. I could barely see him move.

You could’ve stopped them.

No. I could not. I don’t have that kind of power. No one on earth does.

I put the coffee down. So what are they? Aliens?

Something like that. He gave you the flash drive?

I patted my pocket. Right here.

Good. Copy it. Several times if you can. Put them in different locations. They’ll try to recover it. Don’t let that happen.

He told me I should destroy it.

Not too surprising. Considering. He turned as if to peer out the window.

What’s on this thing, anyway?

Everything about everything.

That’s what O’Keefe said. Doctor O’Keefe. Doctor of what?

Particle physics.

Really. I shook my head. O’Keefe hadn’t seemed like he could be a doctor of anything. I wondered what happened to turn him from a man of science into the erratic creature I’d just met.

I shouldn’t say more. You can find what you need on the internet. It’ll get you started. He opened the car door.

You never answered my question, I blurted.

He paused. What’s that?

Why me.

Sure I did.

Tell me again. Please.

I need your voice. Someone who can speak the truth. Someone with nothing to lose.

See? That’s the part I don’t like. Right there. I got plenty to lose.

I heard a half-laugh. You’d be surprised, he said, and he was gone.

Shaking my head, I started my car and headed home, the bitter aftertaste of the coffee still lingering on my tongue.

Chapter 3

I lived currently on the outskirts of town, boarding alone in a one room flat within easy driving distance of the airport, despite all my best intentions toward the opposite sex. Funny, I shook my head, after all these years I still think about her, the one that got away. Being alone sucks, but there’s no other life for a disgraced reporter. I’d been in this house for going on six years now, and yet I still thought of it as my escape route if things with the Tattler didn’t work out. Given the relationship between my editor, Miles Clevenger and the Sheriff’s office, that remained a distinct possibility.

I sat in the car for the better part of an hour, typing up my mental notes on what I’d just seen. Though it wasn’t the story Miles sent me for, he’d want it for the front page nonetheless. Blood was always good for the paper. On the way home, I took Coffee Man’s advice and snagged a handful of flash drives from an office superstore. I set about copying the files to my laptop and to the new drives before I even pulled in the driveway. Whatever information this memory stick contained, one man was already dead because of it, and Coffee Man said they’d try to recover the drive. I guessed that they already knew its contents and didn’t want the intel discovered. Which meant whatever was on here might exonerate me to Detective Fallon. And it just might give me the story Miles was so hot for.

I pulled into the driveway and sat there a moment while the last drive finished copying. It was the first moment I had since O’Keefe’s murder. I took some deep breaths, trying to process the evening.

What was I getting into?

Coffee Man sought me out almost seven years ago, in a meeting I could never forget. He greeted me with a dark French roast and a complete dossier on my life and work. I was sitting in a booth at a local diner in Washington, D.C., feeling sorry for myself and wondering what I was going to do with the rest of my life. Despite the ceramic mug already steaming on my table, he set a Styrofoam travel cup and a manila envelope in front of me when I wasn’t looking, and then sat behind me.

Try the French Roast instead, he said. It’s much better than the bilge they serve here.

I looked to see who was speaking, but he held a menu up in front of his face and told me to turn around. Open the envelope.

I’d met cloak-and-dagger types before in my work at the Washington Post, but none who greeted me with a cup of java and a menu over their face as a way of saying Hello.

The envelope contained the dossier on my life, with particular attention paid to the scandal that cost me my last job. I set it down in disgust. What’s this about? You some nutbag who gets off rubbing my nose in this?

Calm down, he said. You did your job. It’s not your fault things went south.

Yeah? Tell that my boss. Ex-boss.

You were set up. You told the truth. You fact-checked your sources. You backed everything up and pulled the trigger, just like a good reporter should. But the moment your story about the Senator hit the papers, the facts changed.

How do facts change?

He snorted. Not easily. But with access to the right tools, the right contacts, anything is possible. How’s the coffee?

I took a sip. Mmm. Wow, that is good. So can you prove this? Prove I was set up?

If I wanted to.

If you wanted to? What do you want in exchange? Good coffee and an opportunity to restore my sullied reputation and reclaim my job? I was more than ready to deal.

I want nothing in exchange.

Even better. Okay, I said.

But neither do I wish to prove you were set up.

I set the coffee down. Maybe it didn’t taste as good as I thought.

So what do you want? You’re not here to gloat and you’re not here to help. Why are you here?

I need your help.

And why should I help you?

Because I believe you. I know you’re a truth-teller. I know you’re unafraid of speaking truth to power. And you happen to be very good at discovering secrets you weren’t meant to know.

You just described half the reporters in this city.

You also have nothing left to lose. Your reputation is shot, and there’s no paper left on the East Coast that will hire you.

Terrific. So what now?

Take the job.

What job?

The one that’s about to be offered to you. You’ll have to move, but I suspect that won’t be a problem.

Look, if you’re offering me a job—

The job’s not from me. But you do need the work. And I need someone who can do research.

Okay, I said. I wasn’t sure I meant it. Whoever this guy was, he wasn’t very forthcoming. And what’s in it for me?

Chance to do the right thing, restore your reputation, and discover the truth.

Truth about what?

About everything. I’ll be in touch.

Yeah, hey, who are you?

Just the guy who buys your coffee.

The job offer came in two days later from The Tattler. Detective Fallon was right about this. The Tattler was a smut-rag. It ranked slightly below a supermarket tabloid: full of innuendo, conspiracy theories, scandal mongering and sensationalism. The Tattler made its dime off ads for herbal remedies, 1-900 chat lines and work-from-home scams that involved assembling cheap imported junk. I don’t know how they got my résumé, since I never sent them one, and if it hadn’t been for Coffee Man’s heads-up, I’d have laughed them off and hung up the phone. Still, six years of a steady paycheck made up for a lot. Mostly I wrote human interest stories for them. Tame, speculative stuff. ‘What if?’ Fringe theories on the edges of science. I was always careful to couch my stories in the form of questions, rather than declarative statements that could get me into trouble. But my editor liked my approach and style. Gives the paper credibility, he said.

I think he just liked having a real reporter on the payroll.

Now, sitting in my driveway with the dried blood of a would-be informant staining my shirt cuffs, I wondered if I’d made the right