The Reality Conspiracy (19 page)

Walking along "the M"—as Gaston called St. Laurent—cooking aromas from that cross-cultural stew spiced the air with savory, unfamiliar fragrances—smoked meats, sausage, spiced breads and pastries. Unable to resist, Sullivan had stuffed his belly full of knishes, golombkis, souviakis, and other exotic concoctions the names of which he couldn't remember.

"Food will be the death of me," he told his companion.

At noon he had done penance for his gluttony by visiting St. Joseph's Oratory. Here, until his death in 1936, Brother Andre had invoked his patron saint, the husband of Mary, to heal the sick.

Miracles happened here.

Sullivan had watched the afflicted as they moved about him, seeking intercession, seeking relief. He had knelt, chastised himself for his indulgence, and said a prayer for Father Mosely.

H
e took the handle and lifted the bag to the floor. His holiday was over. Tomorrow morning he was scheduled to meet with Bishop LaPoint in Burlington.

A tapping sounded from behind him.

"Father!" It was Sister Maria calling from the doorway.

"Come in, Sister."

She opened the door about a foot and peeked around it. "Excuse me, Father Sullivan," she said in the slow, cautious English of an occasional speaker, "but I cannot find Father LeClair just now. Can you to come at once? Something . . . something is happening with Father Mosely."

Boston, Massachusetts

M
cCurdy's office was in the house proper. Elegantly paneled in rich black cherry, the magnificent woodwork contrasted harshly with the bureaucratic plainness of the room's furnishings. Two green four-drawer filing cabinets looked like army surplus rejects. The one closer to McCurdy's metal desk had a dog-eared NO SMOKING sign attached to its side. Browned transparent tape flaked from the sign's border.
Some pencil-pusher's hopeless crusade
, Jeff thought, noting an oversize ashtray brimming with cigarette butts. It balanced precariously on the edge of the desktop.

McCurdy too noticed the accident-about-to-happen and pushed the ashtray to a safer spot. "Smoke?" he asked Jeff.

Jeff shook his head and sat down in a blue plastic and aluminum armchair.

"I shouldn't either," McCurdy said, "it's no good for me and it's sinful as all getout, but . . ."

Not paying attention, Jeff continued to look around. This was his second time in McCurdy's office, and he wanted to take everything in. He noticed another incongruity: there was a crucifix on the wall. Close by, on one of the exquisitely crafted bookshelves, he saw the black spine of a Bible, stacked beside it
The Oxford Concise Concordance
and the
Annotated Apocrypha
. And there were other books, but strangely, most seemed part of a devotional collection.

"As you can see, up here in the visible part of the operation, we like to keep our overhead pretty low." McCurdy broke the filter off his Marlboro and popped the cigarette into his mouth. "This way we can show the world a thrifty face. As you might guess, our ledgers reflect remarkable fiscal restraint: conservative admin costs, low working expenses, modest salaries. We're a model government operation, highly cost effective and properly respectful of the taxpayer's hard-earned dollars. Of course what goes on behind that secret door to the basement is another thing entirely."

Jeff nodded, not knowing what to say.

"I suspect right now you're thinking: Jeez, I was hired to investigate UFOs. Now I discover the Academy's into all sorts of strange and interesting stuff—right?"

"You read my mind." Jeff offered a weak smile.

"Then it's time I put my proverbial cards on the metaphorical table. Symbolically, Jeff, the day-to-day operation of the Academy represents a microcosm that reflects the workings of the U.S. government itself: some of what we do is overt, the rest is covert."

"Not a flattering analogy."

McCurdy cleared his throat. "Maybe not, but accurate. We're realists here, Jeff. We have to be. Over the years, especially since the late 1940s, there's been a tremendous amount of covert government activity centering around
many
situations, not the least of which is the UFO question. Outwardly, UFOs are our raison d'être. The Academy's ongoing UFO research demonstrates to a wary public that, yes, the government
is
looking into the matter. And yes, we are looking out for the welfare and safety of our citizens."

McCurdy lit a match and touched it to the shaggy end of his cigarette. Smoke gushed as he spoke. "And it's true. The simple fact is, hundreds of thousands of ordinary people—cops, waitresses, mechanics, even Sunday school teachers—are seeing strange things in the sky. I'm talking about people from all over the globe, even people like former President Carter, as you may recall. In spite of all that, our government has perpetuated a position of irrational denial.

"That's where the Academy stepped in. Thanks to that blasted Freedom of Information Act, dozens of civilian UFO investigators are suing the air force and the CIA to release UFO-related documents. Enough information got out so Defense had to demonstrate an apparent interest in the UFO question. Ignoring the obvious just didn't work anymore.

"Okay, so the Academy is kind of reactionary. Ours is a Band-Aid solution to a worldwide quandary. But hey, we're thorough and honest in our investigations. And, yes, we're slippery and very clever in our public relations program."

Jeff linked his fingers. "You know, Dr. McCurdy, I'm pretty much on the side of the public. I'm curious about UFOs; I believe I have a right to know what they're all about. And it's not just civilian UFO investigators; a lot of people feel the government has been . . . well . . . less than forthright. In fact, I think a lot of people feel their elected representatives are out-and-out lying to them."

"And they're right." McCurdy slapped his desk, belching smoke like a dragon. "To this day the official U.S. government stand—in spite of former President Carter's promise of complete disclosure—is that UFOs are nothing but airborne baloney: kites, weather balloons, ball lightning, anything but extraterrestrial visitors who travel to impossible places using unknown technology.

"Historically, the government has made a series of halfhearted public gestures: Project Sign, Project Grudge, Gleem, Pounce, and the rest; the laundry detergents, I call them."

"That's what they sound like," Jeff chuckled. "What about Project Blue Book?"

"Right." McCurdy puffed his cigarette. "Blue Book's certainly the best known."

"But the results were inconclusive, as I recall."

"Yup. So was the Warren Commission's report on the Kennedy assassination."

"Huh? You lost me."

"Jeff, we're talking smoke screens. It's time you understood that. Every official smoke screen operation—up to and including the Academy—has, as a matter of policy, debunked all sightings, even those by credible witnesses. The United States has conducted a campaign of ridicule so effective that most witnesses choose not to speak out about UFOs at all. Meanwhile, behind the scenes, we're spending hundreds of thousands of dollars, millions actually, trying to learn everything we can about these flying saucers. At the same time we're swearing they don't even exist!"

Smoke hanging in the closed office was making Jeff queasy. His nausea grew worse as he watched the other man pick flecks of tobacco from his pink tongue.

McCurdy went on, "Official curiosity is tied into national defense. First, regardless of where the saucers come from, we want to know if they pose any kind of threat to government operations and the civilian population. And second, if they are in fact alien technology, how can we benefit from that technology? Especially in the realm of warfare and weaponry."

McCurdy put the still burning cigarette butt into the ashtray, broke the filter off another, then lit it, inhaling deeply. In a moment a thick bluish cloud extruded from his pursed lips.

"Do you believe in God, Dr. Chandler?"

Jeff gave a start, grinning awkwardly; the question took him completely by surprise. "I . . . I . . ."

"It's a hard question for some; I know that. Please, take your time." McCurdy held Jeff's gaze with a chilling concentration.

"You want the truth?"

McCurdy nodded.

"Well, the truth is, I don't know. I mean . . ." He cleared his throat. "That's an awfully strange question, Dr. McCurdy."

"Call me Skipp, remember? We've been colleagues awhile and I hope we're going to be friends. But this time"—he smiled—"friendship won't get you off the hook. I'd like you to answer my question, Jeff."

"But what does it have to do with—"

"Look, the law says I can't base my hiring decisions on an applicant's religious preferences, nor can I discriminate against him on the job for the same reason, right? But you've already got the job, Jeff, and your answer won't affect your advancement or alter the way we work together here at the Academy. So come on now, it's perfectly safe, answer me. Even a hard-ass atheist shouldn't be afraid to state what he believes. Hell, boy, this is the United States of America, for heaven's sake."

Jeff cleared his throat again. "Well, I guess, I mean . . . I really don't know. I suppose the issue of God isn't really part of my belief system one way or another. Why do you ask. Skipp?"

McCurdy arched his back in the chair so he could fish around for something in his pants pocket. In a moment he flipped a bright silver disk to Jeff. Jeff caught it—a twenty-five-cent piece.

"See what it says right under Washington's chin?" McCurdy asked. "In God we trust."

"Right. So, Jeffrey, it doesn't really matter what you believe, the motto of this country is identical to the motto of the Academy. Remember your logic: we Americans have to believe in God in order to place our trust in Him, don't you agree?"

"Well, yes, I—"

"And by extension"—McCurdy combed his fingers through his sparse red-brown hair—"if one believes in God, it follows that one must believe in the Devil, too. Am I right?"

"Well, yeah, I guess. I mean, you can't believe in one without believing in the other, I suppose."

"Exactly. And while you are in the employ of this project, at least during working hours, you, and I, and everyone here will proceed as if we believe in both of them: God, and the Devil."

"Let me finish, please. Things will come clear in half a second." He took a long drag on the cigarette, and leaned back in his chair, as if he enjoyed prolonging the suspense.

Jeff crossed his arms over his chest. He could feel the stone-on-stone pressure of his clenching teeth.

McCurdy continued quietly. "How about magic, Dr. Chandler? Do you believe in magic?"

"M-magic?"

"Yes. In your application papers you indicated an interest in magic." Jeff smiled. "I was talking about tricks, sleight of hand, stage magic, amateur stuff. It's a hobby of mine."

"What about real magic?"

"Real magic . . ."

"You know, the means of producing natural effects or reactions that are not the result of natural causes—magic."

Jeff fidgeted in his chair. The plastic seat squeaked rudely beneath him.

"I'm somewhat tolerant of the concept of extra sensory perception, if that's what you mean?"

"It's not what I mean, but let's talk about it anyway. It's relevant, after all. Since the late sixties, when the United States discovered the Russians were experimenting with 'mind weapons,' the Pentagon, and virtually all the U.S. intelligence agencies, began taking a closer look at psi phenomena. As you may recall, we even experimented with telepathic communication as part of our space program."

Jeff nodded.'

"The biggest spender, of course, was the CIA. However, in the mid-seventies they had to scale down their visible involvement with psychic research while they were under intense scrutiny on Capitol Hill. After that, much of the ongoing research was farmed out to innocuous-looking facilities like the Academy, and paid for from various black budgets. Recently a U.S. Army study disclosed that 'the Soviet Union has achieved significant progress toward developing mind-control weapons.' What do you think of that, Jeffrey?"

"Isn't that just a lot of hype?" Jeff's crossed arms squeezed him tighter. "Scare tactics?"

"Is it?" McCurdy stared at him with wide-eyed defiance. "Most of us realize the awesome potential of psi-warfare: mind-jamming, remote viewing, psychic persuasion, telekinetic assault. Frightening, isn't it? That's why you and everybody else want to deny it. But it's real. We're stuck with it."

Jeff worked to keep the disbelief from his expression. Was this some sort of test McCurdy was putting him through?

"In fact, Jeff, the Ruskies were so busy we had to increase our own effort to keep up with them. Since the early seventies, millions, probably billions, of tax dollars have been directed, one way or another, into psychic research."

McCurdy took a breath, as if trying to slow his speech. "So, Jeffrey, now tell me: what, in your mind, is the difference between extrasensory perception and magic?"

Jeff fidgeted. He was uncomfortably hot. He caught himself tugging at his necktie, loosening his collar. Rolling his eyes, he explored the room. Was this discussion being recorded? Was there a video camera somewhere? Finally, his gaze met McCurdy's. "Well, ESP might very well exist. I mean . . . well . . . I suppose it's possible. But even if it does work, it must be governed by certain natural laws. It's just that—as far as I know—we haven't identified the laws in question yet."