1
Colorado Springs, CO
10 November 2010
“Why am I back here?” Cherko asked Alda.
“Why is anyone ever here, James?” Alda said.
“Thought I was finished with things.”
“Why would you say that?”
Cherko paused. “I don’t know. Why would I? Probably has something to do with my parents, knowing you.”
“Let’s talk about your parents.”
“Of course.” Cherko crossed his arms and an ankle just above the opposite leg’s knee. He watched Alda scribble on his pad.
“What are you writing?”
Alda smiled briefly, perfunctorily.
“How do you feel about your mother?”
“No Oedipal complexes, here, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“I’m not implying Oedipal Complexes.”
“Okay...,” Cherko said, uncrossing his leg and arms. His right leg began to run uncontrollably. Alda scribbled notes.
“What are you writing down!”
“Do you feel you had a good childhood? That your mother was good to you? Your father?”
“Aren’t those too many questions to ask at once?
“Fine. Yes, I felt I had a great childhood. My mom and dad were great. My siblings were a pain in the butt, but that’s to be expected.”
“Is it?”
“Aren’t you ever direct about anything?”
“Your mother... you’d mentioned she’d had a mental illness of some kind—”
“Had I?”
“Would you care to elaborate? What kind of illness? How’d it affect you?”
“I don’t know what was wrong with my mom. I just knew she was... she was always sad. She tried to be happy... a couple times seemed genuinely so... but there always seemed to be some underlying, I don’t know—like that Pigpen character from Charlie Brown. The one that always walked around with a cloud of dirt surrounding him? She always had an air of sadness about her. Talking to her later in life, she seemed to have finally come to terms with it—but never seemed to understand just what it was that caused her to be that way. Or tell me about it, anyway.”
Alda nodded, writing sporadically throughout Cherko’s narration.
“I see.”
“Do you?”
“Your father—what about him? How had he handled all this? How had he treated you?”
“Dad was fine—great. I never understood how he handled everything. I mean, he was on call twenty-four hours a day with searches, rescues, firefighting, and all, yet he managed to stay with Mom through everything that went on with her as we grew up. Later on, after we all left the roost—”
“After you all left the roost?”
“Yes—all of us—after we left... dang it you interrupted me and I forgot what I was going to say—oh, that’s weird. I was gonna say they divorced, but that didn’t happen. Now, where’d that come from?”
Alda skewered Cherko with his gaze.
“You know, your gaze really does burn.”
“Did you notice anything strange about your father?”
“Strange?”
“Peculiar. Odd. Out of the ordinary. Did he ever tell you... stories? Mention anything that struck you as abnormal?”
“Now, why in the hell—why would you come up with a question like that?”
“It’s just a question, James.”
“No it isn’t. There’s no such thing in a place like this. What are you getting at?”
“Same thing as you.”
“Really.”
“You’d mentioned he’d gotten anxious when you asked him about his submarine days—”
Cherko again crossed his arms. “Did I? When ‘did I mention’? I don’t ever remember mentioning—”
“Jimmy... this is not meant to be adversarial.”
“Is that a fact?”
Jimmy got to his feet.
“I’m not so sure about that. I don’t even know why I’m here! Cause I freaked out in some MRI tube? Why the hell would you be asking all these questions—anything strange about my father? C’mon, that has nothing to do with me freaking out in a—in a frigging MRI...”
Cherko stopped dead in his tracks.
Tube.
Torpedo tube.
Submarines. Boats. Submariners called them boats....
Norwegian Basin, 150 NM West of Norway
31 October 1957
0025 Hours Zulu
The Sailfish had come to a dead stop at a depth of 100 feet in the Norwegian Basin.
All Everett Cherko thought about was how calm and relaxed he felt here in the radio shack. And what’s with that? Dirt? There was grime forced deep into the crevasses of the glass gauge receiver rims. How had he missed those? He’d have to go in with a toothbrush and clean those out.
He felt dreamy... like he was in a dream. And it felt good...
Everett turned his head.
Someone stood in the entranceway. A couple someones.
Everett felt an urge to bid them “hello,” but didn’t want to disturb—to lose—the absolute calmness and peacefulness he felt... so he just smiled.
The figures entered the radio shack.
Something about them looked different. They smiled back to him. One waved... or waved something in front of him...
Ahoy, sailor, one greeted. Everett nodded in the direction of the greeter.
We need you.
Everett again nodded. Ok, he thought. It’s good to be needed. I’m needed here, too.
Two of the figures—funny, he had a hard time making them out; he must really be tired—touched him, and
* * *
Ok, how’d they do that?
Everett stood in a dim chamber, not the radio shack compartment he’d just been occupying—the one with the dirty gauges—no, this was a different one. He didn’t recognize it... or did he? Something did seem to feel vaguely, uncomfortably familiar about it... though it didn’t look like any of the other compartments aboard the Sailfish.
Where am I?
Here, one of the figures answered.
Hey—you didn’t move your lips! Everett thought.
We don’t have lips, the figure replied. Though the figure didn’t laugh, Everett felt what he swore was amusement inside his head.
Everett gave the figure a good, hard look.
Don’t look too hard. You might not like what you see.
Your mouth... no lips... not moving. Oh, no....
There is nothing to fear.
Then why am I afraid? Where am I?
Alongside your vessel.
My submarine? Alongside it? I need to leave—I need to get back to my boat—
There’s no hurry. You will shortly be returned. Unharmed.
Why am I here? What are you going to do to me?
We are simply checking up on you.
Why?
Everett felt additional internal amusement.
That is for us to know. You do not have the present requirement to know.
Everett found himself lying on a narrow, warm slab. He suddenly felt quite calm again—just like before these... figures (he still couldn’t quite make them out)... had come for him. He wanted to roll off the table, to run away, but something inside him asked him not to... to be calm.
So he stayed. Decided a nap was in order. You could never get enough sleep onboard a boat.
A contraption of some kind, not much larger than a bread box, silently floated over him. As the free-floating thing paused directly above his head, a low humming-like sound—not quite nor exactly like humming, but close enough—emitted, and Everett lost consciousness....
“How would I know this! How would I—”
Eyes wide and terrified, Cherko threw himself before Alda at his desk. His arms supported him as he leaned across the desk and got right into Alda’s face. This time it was his gaze that burned laser-hot.
“How in the hell do I know any of this! Dad never told me this—never—”
“Hello, Son.”
Cherko spun around.
“Dad?”
“You’re correct, Son. I never did tell you about any of this. I never told anyone.”
“Then how do I—what are you—”
“In fact, I pretty much forgot about it. All of it. Except for the fear. I don’t remember the events, just the fear.”
“Dad?”
Jimmy went to his father. Stood before him as his dad sat on the couch. “How long have you been here?”
“I don’t know why I remember it now... not sure—”
Cherko touched his father. His father didn’t appear to notice. “Are you real?” Jimmy whispered to his dad.
Everett looked up to him. “As real as anything in this room. As real as you.”
Cherko looked between his dad and Alda.
“What’s going on here?”
“I’ve been asking you that since you first arrived at my office,” Alda said.
Jimmy turned back to his father. “Was that real? Did it really happen?”
Everett nodded. “Apparently. I’d... I guessed I’d—I think the term is ‘suppressed’—‘repressed?’” Everett looked to Alda; Alda nodded.
“Why now? What was it all about?” Jimmy asked.
Everett shook his head. “I really don’t know.”
Everett got to his feet. Jimmy backed away, allowing him room to stand.
“But as I think about it... there seems to be... another time...”
“Another what? Another—”
190 NM East of Cape Cod
10 April 1963
0907 Hours Eastern Time
RM1 Everett Cherko sat at his station in the radio shack of the USS Thresher, SSN-593, headphones on. He began to wonder if he’d made the right choice. This was his first test-depth sea trial, the first one he’d ever participated in, and though he’d been By-Name requested to serve on the boat by the Thresher’s very own XO... something didn’t feel right. He’d always wanted to get on a nuclear boat, but now, creeping along at two knots, 1800 feet below the surface of the deep blue sea, things just didn’t feel right for the first time in his eight-year naval career. This depth was over twice what he’d ever been to aboard the old diesel boats Sailfish and Irex. This was some serious shit. He swore he could feel the High Yield-80 steel alloys straining against the 80,000 pounds per square inch of water pressure trying to crush them to an ignoble death.
Was that groaning natural?
Was that what nuke subs were supposed to sound like at these ungodly depths?
Something just didn’t feel right...
Suddenly Everett felt thick, heavy. Very heavy. Like he could feel all his muscles and tendons and bones... all his blood and nerves.
How could he “feel” his body like this? Something had to be wrong with him.
He should go see the Doc.
Surely the Doc’d be able to tell him what’s wrong.
Maybe he should take deep breaths... yes, that was it. Deep... breaths....
Everett closed his eyes, folded his arms before him on his console and thought of home, Renée, little Jimmy and—
He looked up.
Ahoy, Sailor. You need to come with us.
No! Not again! I’m not—
* * *
Everett once more found himself in a dark, familiar chamber not his Thresher radio shack. It was a chamber that brought back feelings of fear. Uncertainty and confusion.
Why him? Had he not already given them what they wanted? Why must they continually harass him! Keep pulling him out of his life?
We have not pulled you from life, came the mental reply that originated from behind. Everett turned. There stood a handful of shadowy figures milling around behind him. He squinted, but could not make out their features. They looked disturbingly short. Not right....
We pulled you from your vessel to give you continued life. We regret to inform you your vessel has gone down. All lives are lost. Internal joints ruptured... an unstoppable chain of events unfolded. Your submarine is gone. There was nothing they could do.
“Why’d you just save me? Why not the rest of my crew?”
Our mission was only about you, not your crew.
“But all those lives—put me back with my crew! I’d rather be with them in death than here with you!”
The figure stared at Everett in silence.
This is not about us. It is about you and your continued requirement. You are needed—
“What about all the men onboard—the husbands and fathers? Were they not also needed!”
We must calm you.
Everett felt himself moments from exploding into a livid rage, moments away from launching into the gaggle of spindly figures before him and tearing them limb from limb, but was overcome by an overwhelming... quietness. As hot as his anger had boiled, he was now relaxed, calmed...
We were not there for your vessel nor its crew. We were there for you. It is hard for you to understand, but we need you for purposes not yet realized. Your purpose is not yet completed. For that we needed to take action to ensure your continued viability. Come.
* * *
60 NM North of Cuba
24 October 1962
0916 Hours Eastern Time
Everett stood before men of his own design, though his entourage of shadowy figures remained by his side. He stood before a man in a khaki officer’s uniform. Looked to his insignia. Commander.
The Old Man. Captain of the boat.
Everett looked to the others around him. They wore patches with a fish in the shape of a submarine brandishing a threaded needle. Across the top of the patch was USS Threadfin. Elsewhere on the patch was SS-410.
Everett looked to another officer who stood before him. The Diving Officer.
“Permission to come aboard,” Everett asked. The D.O. responded with “Permission granted.” Everett turned around to find still more men in blue utility dungarees, some with shirts off, their bodies glistening in sweat and grime. Most were clean shaven, but several sported beards, mustaches, and long sideburns. Again, involuntarily he found himself introducing himself to each and every man, one by one.
Everett Cherko, Radioman First Class.
Each acknowledged and introduced themselves in return. As he went about his introductions, he noticed he himself also wore the Threadfin patch.
It was like a dream. Just like a dream. Had he always been aboard the Threadfin? It was hard to think... so hard to hold a single train of thought....
We are outside of Time and have transferred you to another location and moment, imparted his shadowy companion. This is for the better. It is better if these transfers occur in private—or at the height of intense activity—to mask questions or concerns at the target location or with its subjects. Through your introduction to each man, each man will now recognize you and “know” you and your position... and you, them. We will also give you your needed familiarity with this vessel before releasing you. All concerns will be mitigated or ignored. You will only remember your place on this vessel, not your place on the previous one. You will not remember any of what came before. Familiarity masks transfers.
Everett was shown throughout the entire boat, forward and aft, and when all was said and done, was shown to the radio shack, just beneath the sail, or conning tower, which was different from where he’d just come, but not much different from the Sailfish or Irex. He was back on a diesel boat.
What did that mean?
Where had he been?
Okay... okay, the memory was coming... he’d... he’d reported to another boat, the Thresher. Yes. Actually showed up on the plank... but had been turned away. That was it... turned away. There had been no orders cut for him after all. A mistake. His orders had been screwed up. Was reassigned. Threadfin. That was his new assignment.
As he sat facing aft in the radio shack, he looked to his group of shadowy figures. To the one with whom he conversed. He still couldn’t make out their features, but the one with whom he’d interacted waved good-bye.
Fair winds and following seas, sailor!
Everett waved, blinked... and they were gone.