1
Colorado Springs, CO
8 November 2010
1537 Hours Mountain Time
“Okay,” Alda said, shuffling paper around in hand, as Cherko sat quiet in his usual seat. “Since the free association exercise went so well last week, I’d like to try something similar today.”
“Okay.”
“But first—anything you want to talk about?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Ever since my little ‘accident,’ I guess I’ve felt kinda, well, out of it. Slightly... ‘off.’ Like what’s going on with my life? What’s happened to me?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve always tried to live my life in as happy a manner as possible, and for the most part I really am happy, but all these great dreams and goals I had for my life all seem to have bypassed me. I never seemed to get what I really wanted out of life. Was unable to break through and become an astronaut. These are the best years of my life, and I feel things have left me way behind. Somehow I got off track. A tech writer? How the heck had I become a tech writer? Where the heck had my life so grossly derailed?”
“This had always been a huge goal of yours, becoming an astronaut?”
“I always felt as if I was meant to explore space. Get out there. Spaceships, technology, the Great Unknown.”
“Really?”
“It was always a huge goal. That’s what I originally set out to do. Went to college to get a physics degree, got it... went after an Air Force navigator’s training slot, got that... but then failed actual navigator training, and that’s where all the failures began piling up. The really big ones—the important ones.”
“How so?”
“I always tell everyone I failed because I couldn’t do numbers in my head, and while that’s true... I’ve come to learn that there was another reason that also weighed in heavily.”
“And that would be...”
“My inability to deal with the real world.”
Alda raised an eyebrow.
“Up to nav training, everything in my life had been theoretical. Academic learning. And it’s not that I was some white-skinned waif who never did anything outside and away from books—I was very much into the Greek saying ‘a sound mind in a healthy body,’ or whatever it was—but, well, when I was in that T-37 cockpit—”
“‘T-37’?”
“A subsonic jet trainer, just ‘under’ the T-38, which was a supersonic jet. But, when I was in there, flying, I had this moment when my IP—instructor pilot—and I were flying a heading, and I couldn’t DR—dead reckon—a new one. Basically, before flight you sit down and plan your flights—your headings—but, like everything else, things change—wind direction, speed, sometimes even your objective—and you have to be able to change with them in the air. So, you do what’s called ‘dead reckoning.’ You come up with a new heading in-cockpit. That involves numbers. And you can’t always whip out your Whiz Wheel—an in-flight slide-rule-like apparatus for flight calculations. You just have to do the numbers in your head. In today’s world I’m sure everything’s computerized. Anyway, I couldn’t do the numbers in my head, and my IP had to course-correct cause we were coming up on some mountains real fast. The IP had actually whacked me upside the head with the back of his hand. Nothing against my Dad, but it reminded me of him. Or, if you really want to get analytical about things, since that is what we do here, it just made me feel like a kid because of how he treated me. Anyway, that’s when I realized I wasn’t cut out for this job... that mountains do come up fast and that there’s really not much room for error. Either you can or you can’t come up with the numbers. And I couldn’t. It was too real.”
“Too real.”
“I realized this just wasn’t gonna happen. I mean, I had a ninety-eight academic average, but that was the book learning part, it wasn’t the out-in-the-world performance that involved lots of numbers. I’ve never been good with numbers—never—it’s always haunted me. As much as I loved to play with them—I actually enjoyed math—I was just never any good at it. No matter how hard I tried.”
“I see.”
“So, now, I’m this technical writer.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that—”
“Can’t you see the irony? Here I am, in a technical field, a field that definitely does require some adeptness with technical material and numbers. But it’s all on paper—not real, not rocketing into space and applying mathematics and physics to real-time situations. My whole life seems to have taken this weird, metaphysical turn back to the theoretical, when all my life I’d been trying to become this man of action.
“And all these self-help gurus keep telling you all you have to do is just wish hard enough, be optimistic enough—persist long enough—and you’ll eventually get your desires. Well, damn it, I’m much closer to death than birth, and I ain’t seeing the fruit of my so-called optimistic ventures.”
Alda nodded thoughtfully, scribbling notes. When he was done, he looked up to Cherko.
“I’d like you to do something for me.”
“Sure,” Cherko said, again sighing.
“I’d like for you to go over there on my couch,” Alda said, and Cherko looked, “and lay down and close your eyes. Relax. I’d like you to think back to your wildly imaginative childhood. Think back to what it was like as that wide-eyed kid with the overactive imagination, where there were no rules, no restrictions.”
“Okay.”
Cherko went over to the couch. Stretched out on it. Alda followed over to another chair alongside.
“You can take off your shoes if you want.”
Cherko left them on.
“Now... relax. There are no rules, no restrictions. Settle in.”
Cherko closed his eyes and relaxed, and it felt surprisingly easy to do—and good. He loved revisiting his childhood; he’d had a great one and loved thinking about it. Did that a lot. In some ways, he was naïve, but he also considered himself somewhat worldly—but mainly because he’d read about real life from books.
But he liked that.
In the background of his mind he heard Alda talking to him, heard his words, but it was like he was on his own trip now, a trip that didn’t quite feel right... and Alda’s words were quickly fading into the distance....
White Sand Missile Range
3 August 1987
0125 Hours Mountain Time
Captain Jimmy Cherko sat in the webbed seating of the NC-130H as it nosed down for its landing. He’d grabbed a hop on it out of Houston after his meeting-that-never-officially-happened with a top-level NASA administrator, who-was-never-officially-there. He’d been told to divert to White Sands instead of heading straight back to Dulce. He was to meet someone at the airstrip who was to further direct him where to go and how to get there....
* * *
Cherko exited the 130 and cleared away from the still-spinning props. He was quickly met by a smartly saluting Navy Petty Officer 1st Class who stepped away from a dark SUV. He carried a small pouch and something else.
“Captain Cherko?” the PO1 asked, saluting and shouting above the prop wash.
Cherko returned the salute. “Yes?”
“I’m to give you this,” he said handing Cherko the slim parcel.
“What is it?”
“A map. Of the base.”
“Okay.”
“You’re to meet at the location marked on the map no later than 0200, sir.”
“Who am I meeting?”
“I do not know, sir. I was just told to give you this. And you might need this,” he said, handing over the other object.
“A flashlight?”
“It gets rather dark out there, sir.”
Cherko looked out beyond the airstrip. “Right.”
“Take the Jeep, sir.”
Cherko looked to it. “Thanks.”
“And sir—this is very important—but, do not deviate off the roads! Unexploded ordnance!” The PO1 again saluted and left.
Cherko turned on the flashlight, a heavy duty thing that, he found out, carried some massive candle-wattage and nearly blinded him. After having been in the dark in the 130 for the past hour or so, his eyes protested against anything bright and flashy. Blinking and looking away, he looked back to the stiff document in hand. The map was made of that durable chart paper that could withstand the elements. He saw two marked end points connected by a heavy dark line that wove throughout the White Sands Missile Range complex. One end was where he presently stood, and the other way off the paved areas of White Sands Proper, tracing into the out-and-out desert of the actual missile range. Odometer markings were placed at various points along the route. The missile range was essentially total desert interspaced with the occasional launch platform, concrete slabs with leftover electronics and other equipment needed for whatever missions had been set up among the cacti and sand—then deserted.
And lots of sand.
He’d been around some parts of the range for various projects on which he’d worked, since being PCSed from Colorado, but not to where he was directed on this map. And, yes, there was, indeed, a grave concern about not leaving the paved (so they called them) dirt roads. There were all kinds of unexploded ordnance hiding out there.
Cherko headed toward the Jeep.
* * *
Colorado.
It seemed more than just a year ago; seemed a lifetime ago. Since he’d been in Dulce, he’d been flying highly sensitive satellites monitoring (he could still hardly believe it) orbital UFO activity, practicing his telepathic UFO control, and seeding alien technology into the world. He’d also been poked and prodded as the government’s best minds probed his in order to find out why he could control UFOs and not cars or people. And not all UFOs, either. He could only control unmanned (unaliened?) craft, not those under intelligent control. So, it was thought that perhaps UFOs were only controlled by one mind at a time—though it was still not understood why he had this ability and no one else did (or so he was told). To this end, interest in his continued UFO-controlling ability was waning, and his most pressing effort was quickly becoming working this orbiting spy space station project of Hammond’s. And he never did find out about any outcomes of his other efforts with Spooks One, Two, and Three.
But Hammond was growing increasingly obsessed with this station idea of his, one populated by their kind. Not NASA, not CIA, but covert ERO personnel.
And, he was told, if he played his cards right, he could count himself among the first crew members.
Finally, Hammond had played his cards.
It was all quite sexy. Extremely sensitive operations. Astronaut rating. Can’t tell a soul.
Astronaut.
So he continued his frequent trips to Houston, DC, Maryland.
It all was so damned unreal.
All at the expense of leaving behind the woman he loved.
Erica.
He hadn’t had any real choice, he’d been told. Told himself. He’d had to leave her, not even for his country, but for the planet. The entire Human Race.
Yes, it was worth it, he’d been repeatedly instructed; continually convinced himself.
And he wasn’t to ever contact her again. Ever. Even with his family he’d extremely measured contact; gave them only his cover story. All his contact with them was monitored. He was in a different place now. For all practical purposes, he had, indeed, fallen off the face of the Earth.
All to save the Earth.
And now he’d been given this diversion to some indistinct location on a map. In the dark.
Always in the dark, always unpaved roads.
And it was hard hiding his singular lone belief in alien innocence in this secretive world of distrust and hostility. Something just didn’t feel right about it all, and he still couldn’t put his finger on it.
He was tired and it was late. He was glad for the AC, but had to continually jolt himself awake when he found himself hypnotized by the two powerful beams of his headlights cutting into the night before him.
Cherko checked his odometer and slowly pulled to a stop; checked the map. He was coming up on the final segment. A left just up ahead.
Cherko got back on the gas and drove until he came to the gnarled wood post that held a sign that came into view of his headlights.
USS White Sands, it said.
A ship?
Cherko wrinkled his brow and made the left. There was what looked like a large dark structure down another dirt road that seemed tightly hemmed in by desert scrub. Cherko drove his vehicle through the narrow passage... and pulled to a stop before the illuminated bow of a ship.
He shut off the engine and got out of the Jeep. Left the lights on. The door of the Jeep still open, he stared at what was before him. Dumbfounded.
How the hell did a ship get out in the middle of a desert?
Desert Ship.
Cherko reached back in and looked to his map. This was the place. He looked over the map one more time for any more information, found nothing, and tossed it back into the vehicle. Then he pulled out the heavy duty flashlight, and switched it on. Leaving the Jeep’s lights on, he closed the door and walked toward his mysterious rendezvous.
Holding onto the thick metal rail, Cherko cautiously made his way up the narrow, slightly oscillating gangway that led up to the main deck. He’d seen plenty of movies that showed seamen making their way up these things, but never realized just how wobbly they actually were. It reminded him of that Tacoma bridge oscillation way back, and he wondered how many could safely go up one of these things at once, and if they had to be out of step with each other to not bring it down. Several times, on his way up, he turned back to the Jeep, which still obediently shone its lights into the bow of this land-bound ship.
No shit, he was really walking up the gangway plank onto a ship. In the middle of the desert.
But as he made his way onto the top he found that what he thought was an entire ship was actually only part of one... the forward part. The bow section to what had once been a full-size floater (a skimmer, his dad would say). He wasn’t Navy so didn’t know what type of ship he was boarding, but it was impressive enough. As he got to the top of the ramp, he found a light chain drawn across the entryway onto the deck. He paused, flashing his light up and down the length of the structure.
Empty.
“Permission to board!” he hailed into the night. Again, he flashed his light up and down the abbreviated length of the empty ship’s deck. Then even shined it up above him, along what must be the bridge.
Nothing.
Grunting, he unclasped the chain and boarded. He fastened the chain back behind him.
Cherko briefly checked out the deck, but saw a hatch in what he assumed to be the side of the bridge structure. He also assumed he was to enter it, and did so.
* * *
Cherko directed his light down the hole before him. It was dark down there, but there seemed to be just a hint of light coming from somewhere. One hand on the immaculately painted and polished gray railing, and aiming his light down before him, Cherko descended into the steep, narrow passageway. His steps made a unique “tink” on his way down the metal steps. Sounded exactly like they did in the movies. As he continued to descend, however, it got hotter. He was hoping that whatever he was doing here, whomever he was to meet, they didn’t have to stay long. This ship was one massive heatsink.
As he made mid-deck, he found the light. It came from a slightly opened hatchway in the center of the main passageway. He made the landing, always shining his light around him. There were several highly polished wooden doors—oak? Mahogany? He wasn’t sure, but everything on this ship was immaculately maintained. Like the saying goes, you could eat off the deck of any Navy ship—or what was left of one. Cherko went to the slightly opened door. It led into what looked to be a briefing, or Ward, room.
The room was sparse, low lit. Paneled in a rich, dark wood. Cherry? Looked like some briefing rooms he’d been in at NASA and NRO. Very official. Lofty. Trophies in many showcases; flags and numerous shots of planes, ships, and National Command Staff military and Executive civilian personnel. It all looked very Navy. Cherko wondered if his dad had ever been in briefing rooms like this. On subs, or the one surface “skimmer” he was on before subs. Of course he had. What was the name of that ship he’d been on—the Nereus?
Morning, Captain.
Cherko swung his flashlight around him like a gun as he spun around.
His blood ran cold.
There, standing in the dimly lit hatchway stood none other than Spook King himself.
The tall, lanky, dark figure stood like he’d always found him; clad in its dark longcoat attire and scarecrow thin; shadowy Fedora dipped over its face and arms down to its sides.
It just stood there, like a prop on a set. Just inside the hatchway.
Cherko had an image of this figure standing on some dark, noirish street corner under a streetlight, smoking a partially spent ciggy butt. Of course, the figure would have to move its arms to do that, and he’d never seen it move its arms—or anything else, for that matter.
It was always just there.
And just as gone when it wasn’t.
Cherko’s first reaction was to run, to bolt on out of there—but he also had the contradictory urge to knock off that hat. To peer into the face of the unknown.
“Good morning,” Cherko greeted.
We hope you had no trouble finding this location.
“None at all.”
The figure still never lifted its head, but he heard its words. Words that seemed to originate within his mind—his mind.
“Who are you—what do you people wa—”
But as soon as Cherko’d uttered those words, there, now, stood another figure.
We have something for you.
One moment the Spook King stood before him, and the next—
Another.
Short and slight.
And something wasn’t right about this new guy. Something wasn’t right... it was hard to see...
Cherko’s vision swam before him.
He was unable to focus.
Vertigo clawed at his balance and he felt immediately nauseated. He reached out to the conference table. Bright flashes of light went off all around him—or inside his head—he couldn’t tell which. He suddenly had one holy mother of a headache.
Did his ears just pop?
His hands sweat and he couldn’t breathe.
Anxiety.
Dread.
A deep sense of all-pervading, soul-searing, dread...
His breathing constricted, quickened.
The figure’s words continued to ring out inside his head like a carnival loudspeaker.
We have something for you!
Little surprise!
For YOU!
Come, one, come all!
See the dogfaced boy...
Cherko rubbed his eyes. Was aware of the texture of his hand against the skin and temples of his head. He swore he felt the bones inside his hand... the brain inside his cranium. Felt the boney fingers through the warmth of a fleshy palm that didn’t feel all that much like his, as he brought (or thought he did...) it across his brow. Closed his eyes. Felt the eyes in their orbital sockets. So soft, so vulnerable.
Opened them. They stung—or was that just his mind?
Lord, what the hell was happening?
As swiftly as he’d been overtaken by everything... it departed.
The vertigo, the bright flashes of light, the popping. Boney fingers. Headache.
Gone.
He looked up. Squinted.
An odd little figure now tried to fill the doorway, but came far from ever doing so. Would never do so. He could now see it clearly—or as clearly as dark and shadows, low lighting, and a reasoning mind would allow... and wondered if what he saw or thought he saw was what he really wanted to see....
The figure was short and slight, but the one characteristic that really, really stood out, the one thing that really nailed him and made Cherko prickle all over and feel as if his entire body had been snatched by a giant, icy, body-squashing hand, was the really outsized, out-of-proportion head.
And huge, dark eyes.