Psychic Warrior (23 page)

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Authors: David Morehouse

BOOK: Psychic Warrior
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I tore the label off my bottle as I listened to my friend plan his future. I had no idea what mine would be like. I wasn't even thinking about it these days. “What would you view if you could do anything you wanted?”
“No doubt in my mind. I'd look into the past of the Native Americans and try to find some answers for their future. I'd do anything I could to help them secure a better life. We owe them a lot, and I want to be part of the payback. There's got to be some application for remote viewing in that role, and I'm going to find it.”
“I'd've thought you'd spend more time off-planet, looking for extraterrestrials.”
“Is that what you want to do?”
“Hell, no! You know how I feel about that—I think it's great that we know they're there, and that they know we're here, but that's as far as it goes. I don't have a thing about it.”
“Enough people in the unit do. I thought you'd jump on that bandwagon.”
“Not me. I have my own troubles, and so does the rest of humanity. I think the solutions are right here in River City, not out on the edge of the galaxy. Every place I've ever been out there, the locals have been busy with their own agendas. They're mildly curious about us, and that's it. What about you?”
“Well, I'm not all that fascinated either. I think they're kind of like bored neighbors. They drop into our backyard to see what's up but they certainly aren't here to alter the fucking human race or anything. I mean, look at all the other races and species you've seen out there. We're nothing special, right? There are far more advanced and durable species out there—we've seen 'em, you, me, and everyone else in the unit.”
“I know. People want to make extraterrestrial life more than it is. They want to market it, and sell everyone on the idea that our future lies in the hands of some wayward space traveler, when we should be looking for answers right here at home. We should be using remote viewing for science and medicine and education. Hell, it could—”
Mel interrupted me. “Hold that thought. Henry! Get my friend another beer; he's waxing philosophical and his bottle's empty. All right, go ahead.”
I took a swig and picked up where I'd left off. “Look, we could use remote viewing to find a cure for AIDS, or cancer, or Alzheimer's. With the right controls, with a dedicated group of viewers and a team of technical experts to analyze the data, we could do anything with remote viewing. Instead, what do we do with it? We chase bad guys
and spy on the enemy while they turn around and spy on us. It's criminal that we continue to sequester remote viewing as a weapon of war. I don't like it one bit.”
“Whoa, there, buddy, don't forget where you are. This is Meade, the rat's nest of intelligence. Some NSA geek is already playing a tape of those remarks for a counterintelligence officer, and by the time you get home tonight, your phone'll be tapped and one of your neighbors will have been paid off to keep an eye on you.”
We both laughed. “I know, I know. It's how I feel, anyway. Look, I've got to get home. I'm in the doghouse enough; I don't want to show up with beer breath and have to sleep with the dog. She's not my type.”
We left the bar and headed our separate ways. I couldn't shake my thoughts about the potential of remote viewing, about all the lives that could be saved and all the dim futures that could be turned bright. I let it pass; there was nothing I could do about it.
 
My training was nearly complete. Levy said so, Mel even asked that I be stepped up. If he'd had his way, I'd have been on operational status for a month already. But, though Levy was pleased with my progress, he felt he'd have a hard time justifying a decision to let me stop training six months sooner than usual. He wanted to let things ride for another month or so.
The winter was upon us. The army at Fort Meade didn't contract for anyone to rake the leaves—I guess they were trying to save money—and the ground was covered with oak leaves. They fell so thickly in this part of the country that they actually became road hazards. People braking would slide on them, just as they would on ice. Being a Southern California boy, I'd never seen such a thing. Our entire office was out in force, raking. We worked our way around the building, scaring our pet cats, and Jenny even got to take a swipe at the squirrel she hated so much. It was the first time I ever saw everyone laugh and talk together; it was also the last. The next year some guy with a
huge leaf-sucking truck just drove by the window vacuuming. Jenny stood at the window praying her squirrel didn't get turned into mush.
I grew more attached to the unit every day; conversely, I grew more distant from Debbie and the children. I was losing my ability to talk to them. If your spouse was interested in what you were doing, there was hope. When she opposed it, even if only deep in her heart, then it was hopeless. If the work hadn't been all-consuming, if I'd had a job that I could leave at the office door, I would have been okay. But I didn't. When I came home I tried to share some of my experiences, but I was the alien in my children's lives; I was a sideshow, a stage trick for their friends. As long as I maintained that role I was okay; my nightmares, though, made them cry and wish for a safer life. I frightened them, I frightened Debbie, and worst of all, my volatility frightened me.
I stopped writing my mother and father. All I could think of to say was that I loved them; nothing else seemed important enough to write about. They called once in a while, but they were hurt; I'd all but abandoned them. Debbie tried to explain to them that I was, in her opinion, still in desperate need of help, but I don't think they yet realized how far gone I was. And as for Debbie, I hadn't taken her out on a date in a year or more; we just stopped expecting that of each other. She found new friends, and I lost myself in the ether world. I read books on the subject; I kept notes and a detailed journal of every experience and nightmare I encountered. Involved in my explorations of the unknown, I no longer had time for people who couldn't appreciate that.
Cathy and Ashley Joyner, my closest friends from the Ranger battalion days, whom I loved as if they were my brother and sister, were little more than a memory to me. When I'd left the Ranger battalion—it seemed centuries ago—Ashley had had a beautiful knife custom-made for me, and I treasured it. The single most stunning thing about it was a scrimshawed handshake on the handle, the eternal
affirmation of two friends. On the knife's hand-made oak case was the famous Theodore Roosevelt quote that reads, in part, “It is not the critic who counts. Not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena. Whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood. Who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again.” I put the knife away; it reminded me too painfully of what I had been.
Debbie had always maintained that she could endure almost anything if I would remain faithful and attend church meetings, at least for the sake of setting an example to the children. But I abandoned the church, and it soon abandoned me. My last encounter with it was in a sacrament meeting one summer day in 1989. It's a custom in the Mormon church for members to speak periodically to the congregation on some topic set by the bishop. The topics are generally simple, in keeping with traditional belief, and members' talks are supposed to be testimonial, informative, and uplifting. Debbie and I were asked to speak.
Debbie gave a wonderful presentation. I, on the other hand, concluded that the congregation had been fed religious pabulum for too long. I ignored the assigned topic and substituted one of my own: “Temples—Beyond Ritual.” My talk dealt with issues of dimensionality, astronomy, other worlds and beings, who God really was, and what motivated His dealings with us. I challenged the congregation to expand their minds, to reach beyond the books and spoon-fed teachings of the church, to be more than they'd ever imagined.
I think they thought I was insane. When I gave the concluding “Amen,” maybe five people in a congregation of two hundred said it with me. At the time, I was furious. I thought the reaction was a perfect example of organized religion: don't challenge yourself, don't ask questions, just sit in the pews and breathe; God will reward you for it. I thought of
Hamlet
, Act III, Scene ii: “Some must watch, while some must sleep; So runs the world away.”
Run
away, little sheep, and be safe in your little world; I haven't time for you any longer
. I did not return.
 
It was the fall of 1990. Mel was getting ready to retire in a couple of months and I wanted to give him something to remember me by. I convinced Debbie to let me dip into savings, and I bought him a canoe. He needed something to fish from, something he could use to get away from it all. I found a place in Alexandria that sold them; by the time I'd learned everything there was to learn, and asked every question I could, the salesman had eleven canoes laid out in the front yard of the place. I sat in every one at least five times. I did some mock paddling, much to the amusement of the salesman and the people who were there to price yachts. I even picked each one up and carried it around the yard a couple of times. The salesman must have thought I was a basket case by the time I pointed at a canoe and said the magic words: “I want that one!” He had the paperwork done and the canoe strapped to my car so fast I thought I'd just bought a Big Mac.
It was worth all the work to see Mel's face when I dropped off the canoe. It was like Christmas, and he was twelve again. Edith, God love her, was naturally concerned about where the damned boat would go until the movers came to pack. Mel, of course, had a number of ideas he was more than willing to share with her. I left them standing at the curb in heavy negotiations, and I drove home with a big smile on my face.
 
It was Friday, time for the weekly staff meeting. Everyone trickled into the back room and plopped down, waiting for Levy to arrive. I always sat next to Mel; when the meeting got boring I could count on him to have two or three pages of drawings and doodles to glance at. It was amazing what the guy could create when he was bored. Too bad Levy wouldn't let him do beadwork during the meetings.
In meetings, Carol and Judy were their usual sarcastic selves. Pratt and Paul might have been asleep, but their eyes
were always open and following whoever was speaking. However, if you asked either one a question about the meeting two minutes after it adjourned, they wouldn't have a clue what you were talking about. It's a knack, I guess.
Kathleen was always attentive and punctual. She even took notes, like one of those little girls I always hated in grade school, pretty, intelligent, teacher's pet. Lyn was like Kathleen, except that he was a guy, which made it worse.
Levy finally showed up, a diet soda in hand. “Are we all here?” Which is what he always asked, though he never got an answer. “Good! I have a few administrative announcements. First, someone has been taking sodas from the fridge and neglecting to pay for them. Whoever it is needs to put about twelve dollars in the soda kitty. Just get it done and nothing else need be said about it.”
I elbowed Mel and whispered, “Pay up, asshole.”
He just grinned. I don't think I ever saw a soda in his hand.
Levy continued. “Second, if you use the unit car to run to DIA for classes”—he stared at Kathleen and Pratt, who were the only ones taking classes at the Defense Intelligence Agency—“I'd appreciate it if you filled up the tank before returning the car for some unsuspecting soul to get in and try to run to headquarters only to have to hike to a gas station because some uncaring person or persons left it empty! Third, David is now operational. Fourth, we are expected to be at Dr. Compton's retirement next week. If you—”
“Hold on there!” I said. “Can we please go back to Item Number Three? Did you say I'm operational?”
Mel didn't plan on missing the chance to harpoon me. “That's what the man said—didn't you take notes? I think we should give Dave another month or two of training, Bill. I can't believe an operational viewer wouldn't take any notes; you took notes, didn't you, Kathleen?” She held up her paper, snickering. “See! Kathleen took notes.”
“All right, all right! Let's get back to business,” Levy said. He rambled on for another hour, but I didn't care; I
was an operational viewer. No more training targets; from now on it was the real thing, and it counted.
 
I'd been running operational targets since about two hours after Levy's announcement, but Mel never got to monitor me on an operational mission. He'd left quietly that same day, though he stopped by now and then while he used up his leave and packed up his household. Six weeks later he was gone. He dropped in to say a final good-bye while I was out of the office on an errand, and when I called his quarters, the phone had been disconnected. I drove over there, hoping to catch him on his way out, but the door was locked and his truck was gone. In seventeen hours he'd be starting a new life.
I tried to be happy for him. It took me a long time to get used to his absence, though. Kathleen and Lyn were good people, and I was close to them, but never as close as I was to Mel.

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