Sidney Sheldon - The Doomsday Conspiracy

The mechanic had finished hoisting the disabled vehicle in the air, ready to tow it away.

“What’s going on over there?” he asked.

Mothershed was busy grabbing his camera equipment. “Come and see for yourself.”

The two men moved across the highway to the wooded area, and Mothershed pushed his way through the circle of tourists.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Excuse me.”

He adjusted the focus on his camera and started snapping pictures of the UFO and its eerie passengers. He took pictures in black and white and in colour. As the shutter clicked each time, Mothershed thought, a million pounds … another million pounds … another million pounds.

The priest was crossing himself and saying, “It’s the face of Satan.”

Satan, hell, Mothershed thought exultantly. It’s the face of money. These will be the first pictures that prove that flying saucers really exist. And then suddenly a terrifying thought occurred to him. What if the magazines think these pictures are fake? There have been a lot of faked photographs of UFOs. His euphoria vanished. What if they don’t believe me? And that was when Leslie Mothershed had his second inspiration.

There were nine witnesses gathered around him. Without knowing it, they were about to lend authenticity to his discovery.

Mothershed turned to face the group. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he called out. “If you would all like to have your photographs taken here, just line up and I’ll be happy to send each of you a print, free.”

There were excited exclamations. Within moments, the passengers from the tour bus were standing beside the remains of the UFO, except for the priest.

He was reluctant. “I can’t,” he said. “It’s evil!”

Mothershed needed the priest. He would make the most convincing witness of them all.

“That’s just the point,” Mothershed said persuasively. “Don’t you see? This will be your testimony about the existence of evil spirits.”

And the priest was finally persuaded.

“Spread out a little,” Mothershed ordered, “so we can see the flying saucer.”

The witnesses shifted their positions.

“That’s it. Very good. Excellent. Hold still, now.”

He snapped half a dozen more pictures and took out a pencil and paper.

“If you’ll write down your names and addresses, I’ll see to it that each of you gets a print.”

He had no intention of sending any prints. All he wanted was corroborating witnesses. Let the bloody newspapers and magazines try to get around that!

And then, suddenly, he noticed that several people in the group had cameras. He couldn’t allow any other photographs but his! Only photos that had the credit, “Photograph by Leslie Mother-shed”, could exist.

“Excuse me,” he said to the group. “Those of you who have cameras: if you’ll pass them to me, I’ll take a few pictures of you so that you’ll have some taken with your own cameras.”

The cameras were quickly handed to Leslie Mothershed. As he knelt to frame the first shot, no one noticed that Mothershed clicked open the film compartment with his thumb and held it ajar. There, a little bit of nice bright sunlight will help those photographs no end. Too bad, my friends, but only professionals are allowed to capture historic moments.

Ten minutes later Mothershed had all their names and addresses. He took one last look at the flying saucer and thought, exultantly, Mother was right. I am going to be rich and famous.

He couldn’t wait to return to England to develop his precious photographs.

“What the hell is going on?”

The police stations in the Uetendorf area had been inundated with telephone calls all evening.

“Someone is prowling around my house …”

“There are strange lights outside …”

“My livestock is going crazy. There must be wolves around …”

“Someone drained my watering trough.”

And the most inexplicable telephone call of all:

“Chief, you’d better send a lot of tow trucks out to the main highway right away. It’s a nightmare. All traffic has stopped.”

“What? Why?”

“No one knows. The car engines just suddenly went dead.”

It was a night they would never forget.

How long is this assignment going to take? Robert wondered, as he strapped himself into his first-class seat on the Swissair flight. As the plane rushed down the runway, its huge Rolls-Royce engines hungrily swallowing the night air, Robert relaxed and closed his eyes. Was it really just a few years ago that I took this same flight with Susan to London? No. It was more like a lifetime ago.

The plane touched down at Heathrow at six twenty-nine p.m., on schedule. Robert made his way out of the maze, and took a taxi into the sprawling city. He passed a hundred familiar landmarks, and he could hear Susan’s voice, excitedly commenting about them. In those golden days it had never mattered where they were. It was simply enough that they were together. They brought their own happiness with them, their own special excitement in each other. Theirs was the marriage that would have a happy ending.

Almost.

Their problems had started innocently enough with an overseas call from Admiral Whittaker while Robert and Susan were travelling in Thailand. It had been six months since Robert had been discharged from the Navy, and he had not talked to the Admiral in all that time. The call, reaching them at the Oriental Hotel in Bangkok, was a surprise.

“Robert? Admiral Whittaker.”

“Admiral! It’s good to hear your voice.”

“It hasn’t been easy tracking you down. What have you been up to?”

“Not very much. Just taking it easy. Having a long honeymoon.”

“How is Susan? It is Susan, isn’t it?”

“Yes. She’s fine, thank you.”

“How soon can you get back to Washington?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It hasn’t been announced yet, but I’ve been given a new assignment, Robert. They’ve made me Director of 17th District Naval Intelligence. I’d like you to come aboard.”

Robert was taken aback. “Naval Intelligence? Admiral, I don’t know anything about …”

“You can learn. You would be doing an important service– for your country, Robert. Will you come and discuss it with me?”

“Well …”

“Good. I’ll expect you in my office Monday morning at 0900. Say hello to Susan for me.”

Robert repeated the conversation to Susan.

“Naval Intelligence? That sounds so exciting.”

“Maybe,” Robert said doubtfully. “I have no idea what’s involved.”

“You must find out.”

He studied her for a moment. “You want me to take it, don’t you?”

She put her arms around him. “I want you to do whatever you want to do. I think you’re ready to go back to work. I’ve noticed in the last few weeks how restless you’ve become.”

“I think you’re trying to get rid of me,” Robert teased. “The honeymoon is over.”

Susan put her lips close to his. “Never. Did I ever tell you how crazy I am about you, sailor? Let me show you …”

Thinking about it later – too late – Robert decided that that was the beginning of the end of their marriage. The offer had seemed wonderful at the time, and he had gone back to Washington to meet with Admiral Whittaker.

“This job requires brains, courage and initiative, Robert. You have all three. Our country has become a target for every little tin-horn dictatorship that can breed a terrorist group or build a chemical weapons factory. Half a dozen of those countries are working on atomic bombs at this moment, so that they can hold us at ransom. My job is to build an intelligence network to find out exactly what they’re up to and to try to stop them. I want you to help me.”